CHAPTER I

The camp lay calm and peaceful under the spring sunlight. Burkamukk, the chief, had chosen its place well: the wurleys were built in a green glade well shaded with blackwood and boobyalla trees, and with a soft thick carpet of grass, on which the black babies loved to roll. Not a hundred yards away flowed a wide creek; a creek so excellent that it fed a swamp a little farther on. The blacks loved to be near a swamp, for it was as good as a storehouse of food: the women used to go there for lily-pads and sedge-roots, and the men would spear eels in its muddy waters, while at times big flocks of duck settled on it, besides other water-fowl. Burkamukk was a very wise chief, and all his people were fat, and therefore contented.

As blacks count wealth, the people of Burkamukk were very well off. They had plenty of skin rugs, so that no one went cold, even in the winter nights; and the women had made them well, sewing them together with the sinews of animals, using for their needles the small bone of a kangaroo's hind-leg, ground to a fine point. It was hard work to sew these well, but the men used to take pains to get good skins, pegging them out with tea-tree spikes and dressing them with wood-ashes and fat, which they rubbed in until the skins were soft and supple; and so the women thought that the least they could do was to sew them in the very best way. Being particular about the rugs made the women particular about other things as well, and they had a far better outfit than could be found in most camps. Each woman had a good pitchi, a small wooden trough hollowed out of the soft wood of the bean-tree, in which food was kept. When the tribe went travelling the pitchi was as useful as a suit-case is to a white Australian girl; the lubras packed them with food, and carried them balanced on their heads, or slung to one hip by a plait of human hair, or a fur band; and sometimes a big pitchi was made by a proud father and beautifully carved with a stone knife, and used as a cradle for a fat black baby. Then the women used to weave baskets made of a strong kind of rush, ornamented with coloured patterns and fancy stitches, and each one had, as well, a bag made of the tough inner bark of the acacia tree, or sometimes of a messmate or stringy bark, in which she kept food, sticks and tinder for starting a fire, wattle-gum for cement, shells, tools, and all sorts of charms to keep off evil spirits. They had a queer kind of cooking-pot, in which they used to dissolve gum and manna. These pots were made out of the big rough lumps that grow out of old gum-trees, hollowed out by a chisel made of a kangaroo's thighbone. The women used to put gum and manna in these and place them near the fire, so that the water gradually heated without burning the wood. There was no pottery among the blacks, and so they could never boil food, but they contrived to make pleasant warm drinks in these wooden pots.

When it came to baking, however, the women of the tribe were well able to turn out toothsome roasts. Their ovens were holes in the ground, plastered with mud, and then filled with fire until the clay was very hot. When the temperature was right the embers were taken out, and the holes lined with wet grass. The food—flesh, fish, or roots—was packed in rough rush baskets and placed in the ovens, and covered with more wet grass, hot stones, gravel, and earth, until the holes were quite air-tight. The women liked to do this in the evening, so that the food cooked slowly all night; and often all the cooking was done in a few big ovens, and next morning each family came to remove its basket of food. And if you had come along breakfastless just as the steaming baskets were taken out, and had been asked to join in eating a plump young bandicoot or wallaby or a fat black fish—well, even though there were no plates or knives or forks, I do not think you would have grumbled at your meal.

The men of Burkamukk's tribe were well armed. Their boomerangs, spears and throwing-sticks were all of the best, and they had, in addition, knives made of splinters of flint or sharpened mussel-shell, lashed into handles. Some had skinning knives made of the long front teeth of the bandicoot, with the jaw left on for a handle; and they worked kangaroo bones into all kinds of tools. But Burkamukk himself had a wonderful weapon, the only one in all that district—a mighty axe. It was made of green stone, wedge-shaped, and sharply ground at one edge. This was grasped in the bend of a doubled piece of split sapling, and tightly bound round with kangaroo sinews; and the handle thus formed was additionally strengthened by being cemented to the head by a mixture of gum and shell lime. It was not a very easy matter to make that cement. First, mussel shells were burned to make the lime, and pounded in a hollow stone. Then wattle-gum was chewed for a long time and placed between sheets of green bark, which were laid in a shallow hole in the ground and covered with hot ashes until the gum was dissolved, when it was kneaded with the lime into a tough paste. The blacks would have been badly off without that cement, but not all of them would go to the trouble of making it as thoroughly as did the men of Burkamukk's tribe. All the best workmanship had gone to the manufacture of Burkamukk's axe, and the whole tribe was proud of it. Sometimes the chief would lend it to the best climbers among his young men, who used it to cut steps in the bark of trees when they wanted to climb in search of monkey-bears or 'possums; or he would let them use it to strip sheets of bark from the trees, to make their wurleys. Those to whom the axe was lent always showed their sense of the honour done them by making payment in kind—the fattest of the game caught, or a finely-woven rush mat, would be laid at the chief's door. If this had not been done Burkamukk would probably have looked wise next time some one had wished to borrow his axe, and would have remarked that he had work for it himself.

Even though he occasionally lent the axe, Burkamukk never let it go out of his sight. It was far too precious a possession for that. He, too, went hunting when the axe went, or watched it used to prise great strips of thick bark off the trees, and he probably worried the borrower very much by continually directing how it should be handled. Not that the young men would have taken any risks with it. It was the chief's axe, but its possession brought dignity upon the whole tribe. Other chiefs had axes, more or less excellent, but there was no weapon in all the countryside so famous as the axe of Burkamukk. I doubt whether the Kings of England have valued their Crown Jewels so highly as Burkamukk valued his stone treasure with the sapling handle. Certainly they cannot have found them half so useful.

On this spring afternoon Burkamukk was coming up from the swamp where he had been spearing eels. He had been very successful: Koronn, his wife, walked behind him carrying a dozen fine specimens, and thinking how good a supper she would be able to cook, and how delighted her little boy Tumbo would be; for of all things Tumbo loved to eat eel. Just at the edge of the camp Burkamukk stopped, frowning.

A hunting-party of young men had evidently just returned; they were the centre of a group in the middle of the camp, and still they were carrying their spears and throwing-sticks. They were talking loudly and gesticulating, and it was clear that those who listened to them were excited and distressed; there were anxious faces and the women were crying "Yakai!" (Alas!). The chief strode up to the group.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

The men turned, saluting him respectfully.

"We have fallen upon evil times, Chief," their leader answered. "Little game have we caught, and we have lost Kon-garn."

"Lost him! How?"

"There is a great and terrible beast in the country to which we went," answered Tullum, the young warrior. "The men of the friendly tribe we passed told us of him, but we thought they were joking with us, for it seemed a foolish tale, only fit to make women afraid. They told us of a great kangaroo they call Kuperee, larger than a dozen kangaroos and fiercer than any animal that walks on the earth; and they warned us not to go near his country."

"A kangaroo as large as a dozen!" said Burkamukk. "Ky! but I would like to see such a beast The whole tribe could feed on him."

"Ay, they might, if one had the luck to be able to kill him," said Tullum sorrowfully. "But a kangaroo of that size is no joke to encounter."

"What!" said Burkamukk. "Do you mean me to believe that there is truly such a kangaroo?"

"There is indeed," Tullum answered. "We also did not believe. We went on, thinking that the other tribe merely wished to keep us away from a good hunting-ground. We took no precautions, and we came upon him suddenly."

"And he was a big kangaroo, do you say?"

Tullum flung out his hands.

"There are no words to tell you of his bigness, O, Chief!" he said—and his voice shook with terror. "Never has such an animal been seen before. Black is he, and huge, and fierce; and when he saw us he roared and rushed upon us. There was no time to do battle: he was on us almost before one could fling a spear. Kon-garn was nearest, and he went down with one blow of the monster's foot, his head crushed. Me he struck at, but luckily for me I was almost out of his reach. Still, he touched me—see!" He moved aside his 'possum-skins, and showed long wounds, running from his shoulder to his wrist—wounds that looked as though they had been made by great claws.

Burkamukk looked at them closely.

CHAPTER I

Very long ago—so long that the oldest blacks could not remember anything about it themselves—there was a legend of the first coming of Fire.

Fire came with a group of seven strange women, the Kar-ak-ar-ook, who brought it from some unknown country. They dwelt with the blacks, and showed them how to use the new and wonderful thing: but they were very selfish, and would give none away. Instead, they kept it in the end of their yam-sticks, and when the people begged for it, they only laughed at them. They alone knew how to make it, and they never told the secret to anyone.

So the blacks took counsel together.

"We might as well have never learned that there was Fire at all," said one.

"Better," said another. "Before it came, we were content: but now, every one is sighing for it, and cannot get it."

"My wife is a weariness to me," said a third. "Always she pesters me to bring Fire to her, and makes my mouth water by telling me of the beautiful food she could cook if she had it. It is almost enough to make a man lose his appetite!"

"But who that has once tasted cooked food can ever forget it?" another said, licking his lips. "Such flavour! Such juiciness! Twice the Kar-ak-ar-ook gave Fire to my wife, and let her roast wallaby and snipe—and since those glorious meals it is hard to eat them raw."

"Ay, that is so," said one. "To my woman also, they gave Fire twice, and she cooked me wombat and iguana. Ky! how much I ate, and how sick I was afterwards! But it was worth it."

"And fish!" said another. "No one who eats raw fish can imagine what a difference Fire makes to it. It is indeed a wonderful thing. The first time I saw it, I picked it up, admiring its pretty colour, and it stung me severely. In my wrath I kicked it, but its sting was still there, and it gave me a very sore foot. Now I know that it is Magic, and must not be touched, save with a stick—and then the stick becomes part of it. It is all very curious."

"It is worse than curious that such a thing should be, and be held only by the power of women," said an old man, angrily. "If we had fire, the winter cold would not strike so keenly to old bones. Why should we submit to these women, the Kar-ak-ar-ook? Let us kill them, if necessary, and take it from them for ourselves."

But no one moved, and all looked uneasy.

"The women are Magic," said one, at length. "The magic-men know that."

"Yes, and the women's Magic is stronger than theirs," another answered. "They have weaved spells, but what good have they done?"

"Now, they say that unless they let some Fire drop by accident, we can never get it from them: and if they do let it fall, then they will be just like other women, and have no power at all. I would like to see that!" said a big fellow, eagerly. "It would be very good for them, and they would make useful wives for some of us, for they know all about cooking food. I would not mind marrying one of them myself!" he added, in a patronizing tone, at which everybody laughed.

Another big man spoke. His name was Waung, and he was tall and powerful.

"It is all very ridiculous," he said. "No woman lives in the world who can get the better of a man. I have half a mind to get Fire from them myself."

"You!" said the others, and they all joined in roars of laughter. For Waung was a lazy man, and had never done much good for himself. "You! You would go to sleep instead of finding a way to get the better of the Kar-ak-ar-ook!"

This made Waung very angry.

"You are all fools!" he said, rudely. "I will certainly take the trouble to get Fire, and will make one of the women my wife, and she shall cook in my wurley. But then I will have their Magic, and none of you will get any Fire from me, of that you may be sure. Then you will all be sorry!" But this only made the men laugh more, and the noise of their mirth set the laughing-jackasses shouting in the trees. Very seldom had the camp heard so fine a joke.

Waung was filled with fury. He strode away from them, with his head in the air, shouting fierce threats. No one took the least notice of them, because he was known to be a boaster and a talker; but it was very amusing to see him go, and the blacks were always glad of a chance for laughter. Even after Waung had gone into his wurley, he could hear the echo of their merriment; and whenever two or three went past, they were still talking about him and laughing. "A pity Waung is such a fool!" they said. "But perhaps it is as well, for if there were no fools we would not have such good jokes!" And that did not make Waung feel any better.

Next day he went to the Kar-ak-ar-ook's wurley, and met them going out to dig for yams. Their dilly-bags were on their shoulders; and they held their yam-sticks, and he could see Fire gleaming in the hollow tops. Waung looked at the digging ends of the sticks, and saw that they were very blunt. He said: "I will sharpen your yam-sticks for you."

The Kar-ak-ar-ook thanked him, with a twinkle in their eyes. They knew there was some reason for such politeness from Waung. So they held the yam-sticks for him to cut, and though once or twice he tried to make them fall, as if by accident, so long as they had even a finger upon them they did not move. So Waung realized that Fire was not to be obtained in that way. When he had finished the points, he stood up.

"I am sick of the tribe," he said, angrily. "They are silly people, and they turn me into a joke. If you like, I will come out and help you to get food—and, I can tell you, I know where to hunt. Will you hunt with me?"

Now the Kar-ak-ar-ook were suspicious of Waung, but they were lazy women. It did not amuse them at all to go hunting by themselves every day, for they were not clever at it, and it took them a long time to find enough game to cook. Moreover, they were fond of food, and never had enough. They knew that no one could take away their yam-sticks so long as they held them; and so they were not afraid of Waung.

"Perhaps what you say is true," one answered slowly. "At any rate, I do not care. You may come with me if you wish, and sometimes we will give you some cooked food."

So the camp got used to the sight of Waung and the women going out to hunt together; and after a while they forgot that they used to laugh at them, and they had to find another joke. They envied Waung very much if they saw him eating scraps of cooked meat given him by the women: and you may be sure that Waung did not give any scraps away. He became quite good friends with the women, though they were always suspicious of him, and gave him no chance of handling their yam-sticks. The fire in the hollow tops never went out. Waung could not guess how they managed to keep it alive there, and it puzzled him very much. But he never forgot that he had vowed to take it from them, and he made many plans that came to nothing, because the Kar-ak-ar-ook were always watchful.

At last Waung hit upon an idea. Out in the scrub he found a nest of young snakes, and these he managed to tame, for he was a very cunning man. Even when they were nearly full-grown they would do his bidding, and he taught them many queer tricks. Then he went in search of an ant-hill, and sought until he found a very large one. For the Kar-ak-ar-ook had told him that they loved ants' eggs more than any kind of food.

One night, Waung took his snakes, and buried them in the ant-hill, saying, "Stay there until I send to let you out." They looked at him with their fierce, beady eyes, and wriggled round until they made themselves nests in the soft earth, which caused the ants very great inconvenience and alarm. Then Waung covered them up and went home, taking the Kar-ak-ar-ook a little kangaroo-rat that he had killed.

The women were hungry, and the sight of Waung's offering did not please them.

"It is very small," they said, discontentedly. "What is the matter with you? You have brought us scarcely any food for three days."

Waung laughed, swinging his spear.

"Hunting has been bad," he said, carelessly. "I have been lazy, perhaps—or the game was scarce. But I have a treat for you to-morrow."

"What is that?" they asked, eagerly, looking up from skinning the kangaroo-rat.

"What would you say to ants' eggs?"

"We like them more than anything else," they cried. "Have you found some?"

"I have found a very big hill," Waung said. "It should be full of eggs."

"And you will take us there?"

Waung did not want to seem too eager. He hesitated.

"I do not want the eggs," he said, at length. "A man wants something he can bite—eggs are for women. But will you cook me a wallaby if I take you there?"

"Where is the wallaby?" asked the Kar-ak-ar-ook.

"I have not caught it yet. But I have set a snare in a track I know—and while you dig ants' eggs I have no doubt I can get one. That does not matter, however—I can get one some time. Will you cook it for me, if I show you the ants' nest?"

The Kar-ak-ar-ook promised, for the temptation of the ants' eggs was very strong. They ate all the kangaroo-rat, and found it quite too small for their appetites: so they went to sleep hungry, and were still hungrier when they awoke in the morning. They had only a few yams for breakfast, and so they were very eager to start when Waung sauntered up to their wurley.

They all went a little way into the Bush, and then came upon the great ant-hill. At the sight, the Kar-ak-ar-ook ran forward, with their sticks ready to dig.

Waung said:

"I will go on to my snare, and come back to you."

But he went slowly. The women had not taken any notice of what he said. They plunged their yam-sticks into the hill, and began throwing out the earth quickly. Then they uttered a loud scream, for the snakes came tumbling out of the loosened earth and ran this way and that, hissing fiercely—and some ran at them.

Waung turned back at their cries.

"Hit them with your sticks!" he shouted. "Kill them."

The Kar-ak-ar-ook hit furiously at the snakes with the pointed end of their yam-sticks. But a stiff, pointed stick is not much use for killing snakes, as Waung well knew, and he called to them roughly:

"That is no good—use the thick ends!"

The women swung their sticks round at his cry, and brought the thick ends down across the snakes' backs. The blows were so strong that many of the snakes were killed at once—but that was not the only thing that happened. Fire flew out of the hollow ends of the sticks, and, in great coals, rolled down the side of the ant-hill. The coals met and joined, so that they were all one very large coal.

Waung had been watching like a cat. He had picked up two flat pieces of green stringy-bark; and now he leaped forward, snapped up Fire between them, and fled. Behind him came the Kar-ak-ar-ook, screaming. But as Waung stole the Fire, their Magic left them, and they were helpless.

Then Bellin-Bellin, the Musk-Crow, who carries the whirlwind in his bag, heard the voice of Pund-jel speaking to him out of the clouds, commanding him to let loose his burden. So Bellin-Bellin, obedient, but greatly afraid, untied the strings of his bag, and the whirlwind leapt out with a wild rush. It caught the Kar-ak-ar-ook, and whirled them up into the sky, where you may still see them, clustered together, for they were turned into stars. Now they are called the Pleiades, or Seven Sisters. But the blacks know that they are the Kar-ak-ar-ook women, and that they live together in the sky, still carrying Fire on the ends of their yam-sticks.

Long ago, Kari, the Emu, was superior to all other birds. She was so superior that she would not live on the earth. Instead, she had a home up in the clouds, and from there she used to look down at the earth and the queer antics of all the things that lived there. It gave her much food for thought.

At that time there were no human beings at all. All the earth was inhabited by animals, birds, and reptiles, and they lived very happily together, as a rule. There were no wars, and every one had enough to eat. While there were no men, Fear did not live on earth either. All the world was a big feeding-ground, where even the smallest and weakest could find a peaceful home.

Kari, sitting in her great nest up in the clouds, watched the animals below, both night and day. She thought them strange creatures, and wondered very much how they could be so contented with so many other creatures about them. She was so used to living alone that it seemed to her rather unpleasant to have one's solitude broken upon by others, all of whom might be peculiar enough to think their little affairs as interesting as one's own. Kari thought that nothing could possibly be so interesting as her great lonely nest in the clouds. In reality, it was a very dull old nest, and she was a big, dull bird. She knew no one, and spoke to no one, and thought only her own queer thoughts. But she did not know she was dull, and so she was quite happy.

One day she sat in her nest, watching the cloud-masses drift about between her and the world. They cleared away after a while, and she looked down upon a great forest over which she found herself, for, as her nest was in a cloud, it used to float about, and so she never knew what country she might see when she looked down. Sometimes it was a lake, sometimes a mountain, and sometimes the great, rolling sea, which always made her feel rather giddy, because it would not keep still for a moment.

But on this day it was a wide forest, green and peaceful. Kari's sight was very keen, and she looked through the tree-tops to the ground below and saw all the animals. It was really almost as good as a circus, but then Kari knew nothing about such a thing as a circus. She watched them with great interest, leaning her long neck over the edge of the cloud in which her nest was built.

Suddenly she saw a sight that made her lean forward so far that she very nearly overbalanced and fell out. Far below her was an open space near a bright spot that she knew was water in a little swampy place in a hollow. The grass there was green and soft; there were trees all round it, and it was a very secluded place, except for anyone looking from above, like the inquisitive Kari.

But Kari was not looking only at green grass and shining water. She saw a little group of birds that had come out of the swamp, where they had been wading, and had begun to dance. They were Native Companions—Puralkas—but Kari did not know that. All she knew was that they were very beautiful creatures, the most beautiful, she thought, that she had ever seen: and they were doing the most interesting things.

Very gracefully they danced to and fro on the patch of green grass. They were tall, slim birds, looking a kind of dim grey colour when seen so far away. Their legs were very long and thin, for they belonged to the tribe of birds called Waders, who get their food by walking in swamps and morasses, and they had neat bodies, not fluffy like some of Kari's own feathers—with which she immediately felt very dissatisfied. Their queer thin heads, with long beaks, were carried on long necks, which twisted about as they danced. They pranced up and down, giving little runs backwards and forwards, marching and stepping in the most curious manner. Never had Kari seen so charming a sight. It made her suddenly envious. Until now, she had regarded all the animals and birds as so much beneath her in every way that it never occurred to her to wish to be like them, or to do anything that they did. But this was the first time that she had seen the Native Companions dance.

Kari's cloud drifted away presently, and she could no longer see the queer grey company of long-legged birds prancing on the green spot in the forest. But nothing that now came within her sight interested her at all. She saw the lyre-birds building their mounds in the Bush, and making them gay with all sorts of odd things: bright stones, bits of quartz, gay feathers; and they also danced on their mounds, but it did not please Kari as much as the dance of the Puralkas. The moon showed her the animals that come out at night—wombat, wallaby, wild dogs, and opossums; native bears climbing up the highest trees, and flying-foxes that trailed like clouds between her and the tree-tops. She saw the lizards that live in rocks and on the ground, and the hideous iguanas that run up the trees. Great flocks of screaming cockatoos made the air white, as they flew, the sun gleaming on their yellow crests. There were snakes, too, in the Bush: great carpet-snakes, evil-looking brown and black fellows, and the wicked tiger-snake, with its yellow-patterned back and its quick cruel movements. Once it had amused Kari very much to see the jackass, Merkein, swoop down upon a snake and carry it, struggling, back into a tree. The jackass was a silent bird then, and never made any fuss over his captures: still, it was exciting to see him catch snakes. But now Kari found that none of these things interested or amused her any more. All she wanted to see again was the Puralkas come out of their swamp and dance upon the grass.

She watched for a long time, hoping always to catch sight of them again; but though her cloud drifted over all kinds of country, she could not find the Puralkas until at last, one day, as she leaned out, to her great joy the little green space came below her again; and there were the long-legged birds, dancing backwards and forwards as they had done before.

She watched them breathlessly, until her cloud began to float away; and then she decided in her mind that she could not bear to let them go again. Indeed, she knew now that unless she could do as they did, she would never feel happy any more. "I have seen all there is in the world," she said, "and nothing is half so beautiful as dancing. I know I could dance far better than the Puralkas, if I only knew the way. I will go down and get them to teach me how to dance. Then I can fly back to my cloud, and for ever after I shall not need to look at the world, for I shall be too happy dancing on the clouds."

So Kari spread her great wings and floated down the sky until she came over the little green space among the trees. Then she dropped gently, and finally landed in the swamp, which she did not like at all, because she had never before had her feet wet, nor were they made for wading in the soft mud of a swamp. She scrambled out as quickly as she could, folding her wings over her back.

The Puralkas had run back to the edge of their little dancing-ground when they saw the great brown bird coming down from the sky. At first they were inclined to fly away, but they were inquisitive birds, and they waited to see what she would do, though they were quite prepared for flight if she proved to be alarming. But the Emu looked so simple and meek, and she was so comically upset at getting her feet wet, that the Puralkas saw at once that there was no cause for fear. As they were not afraid, they became rather angry, for they did not like strangers to see them dancing. So they clustered together and watched her with unfriendly eyes as she struggled out of the mud and wiped her feet upon the grass.

"How are you?" she said, rather breathlessly. "I have been watching you all from my home in the clouds, and I think you are nice little birds!"

Now, this made the Puralkas exactly seventeen times more angry than before. They believed that they were quite the most beautiful birds that ever wore feathers, and it made them furious to be addressed in this patronizing manner. Who was this awkward brown monster of a bird, to drop out of nowhere and talk to them as if she were a Queen? They chattered among themselves in a whisper.

"She is as ugly as a Jew-lizard," said one.

"Did ever anyone see such great coarse feet?" another whispered. "And her legs!—he-he! Why, they are as thick as the trunk of a tree-fern!"

"And what a great silly head!"

"She is larger than a big rock, but she is more foolish than a coot," said another. "One look at her will tell you that she has no sense."

"And what is that ridiculous thing she said about a home in the clouds?" one asked. "As if we did not know that there is nothing in the clouds except rain!"

"Why, the big Eagle flew up nearly to the sun the other day; and yet he saw nothing of nests in the clouds," said another. "She must think we are very simple, to come to us with such a tale."

"No one could possibly think us simple, unless she were mad," said another. "Every one knows that we are the wisest birds in all the Bush. She means to insult us!" And they all glared at the Emu, much as if she were a tiger-snake.

Poor Kari felt very puzzled and unhappy. She felt that she had done a kind and condescending thing in coming down to earth and talking so sweetly to these smaller birds; and she could not make out why they should look at her with such angry eyes. She rubbed her muddy feet on the grass, and began to wish that she had never left her nest in the cloud.

"Do you not speak my language?" she asked at last. "Why do you not answer me?"

The Puralkas put their heads together again, and whispered. Finally an old Puralka stepped forward with mincing steps and looked her up and down, so that Kari actually blushed.

"We know what you say, but we do not know why you say it," said the old Puralka. "Why should you want to know how we are? and how dare you call us nice little birds? We do not know what you are—you are something like a bird, to be sure, but in most ways you are a kind of freak. At any rate, we have no love for strangers."

The unfortunate Kari moved her big head from side to side, and looked at the bad-tempered old Puralka in amazement. Her beak opened slowly, but she was too surprised to speak. Nothing like this had ever occurred to her when she lived in the sky.

"As for your extraordinary remark about a home in the clouds, we would like to remind you that we were not hatched yesterday," went on the old Puralka. "Not even the swallows nest in the clouds. You are only wasting your time, and we have none to waste on you. Would you mind going away? We want to get on with our dancing."

Kari did not know what to say. Her bewildered eyes glanced from one Puralka to another, and, finding no friendly face, came back to the old bird who stood waiting for her to answer or go away. She had never dreamed of anything like this, among her drifting clouds, and her first instinct was to spread her wings and fly back until she found her own peaceful nest. But the Puralka's mention of dancing reminded her of what had brought her to earth, and she felt again all the old longing to watch the grey birds dance. So she summoned up her courage, of which she possessed surprisingly little, considering her size.

"I'm sure I don't know why you should be so annoyed," she said meekly. "I mean well, and it grieves me that I have offended you. It was because I thought you were nice little birds that I called you so, but of course I do not think so now—that is, I mean, I——" She broke off, for the old Puralka had uttered something like a snort, and was regarding her with a fixed expression of wrath, and all the other Puralkas had bristled alarmingly. "Oh, I don't know what I really do mean!" said poor Kari helplessly. "You all look at me so unpleasantly. And it is quite true that I have a nest in the clouds—if you will come up, I will show it to you. I live there always, and I have only come down because I hoped that you would teach me to dance!"

There was silence for a moment, and then all the Puralkas began to laugh. They laughed so much that they could not stand—they went reeling round the little green patch, and at last they sat down, with their legs sticking out straight in front of them, and laughed more and more. Meanwhile, Kari stood looking at them stupidly. She felt that it was not pleasant laughter.

At last they ceased to laugh, and, putting all their heads together, began to whisper. This went on so long that after a while Kari grew tired of standing, and so she sat down and watched them, feeling very unhappy. Overhead a jackass perched on a big gum-tree, and looked at the group, with his wise old head on one side.

When they had whispered for a long time, the Puralkas got up and stood in a row, with their wings tightly folded over their backs. The old Puralka came forward.

"You must excuse us for laughing," she said. Her voice was not rude now, but there was something in it that made Kari feel as uncomfortable as she had felt when she had been rude before. "We did not mean to hurt your feelings—but we all thought of something funny we saw last month, and so we had to laugh."

If Kari had been less simple, she would have known that this was only said out of politeness, but she was very anxious to make friends, so she looked gratefully at the old Puralka and said, timidly, that she was glad they were so merry.

"Quite so," said the Puralka. "It is a poor heart that never rejoices. But about dancing—that is a different matter. You see, you have wings."

"Eh?" said the Emu stupidly. "Why, of course, I have wings. Why not?"

"Well, that is the difficulty," said the Puralka. "Dancing like ours is the most beautiful thing in the world, of course. But no one with wings can learn it. You see, we have none ourselves."

The Emu gave a quick look at the Puralkas, standing in a row. They had folded their wings so tightly over their neat bodies that it looked as though they had really none at all; and she looked so hard at their bodies that she did not notice how cunning their eyes were.

"Why, I never noticed that yours were gone," she said. "Dear me! how sad! Do you not find it very uncomfortable and awkward?"

"No; why should we?" snapped the Puralka. "Wings are really not much use when you once get accustomed to doing without them. Dancing is much better."

"But why cannot one have both?" asked Kari.

"Simply because," said the old Puralka crossly. "We do not know why these things are, and we never ask foolish questions about them. But if you wish to learn our beautiful dancing, you must give up your wings first."

"Give up my wings! I could never do that," cried Kari.

"Well, dancing is better. But it is for you to say," said the old Puralka.

As she spoke, she made a sign to the others, and they began to dance, swaying forward until they almost touched Kari, and then backwards again. Then the line broke up into circles and figures, and they danced round the Emu until her head grew dizzy with their movements, and she felt that to dance so well was even better than to have wings. To and fro they went, faster and faster, until she could scarcely distinguish one from another, and their long thin legs she could hardly see at all. Then, quite suddenly, they all stopped; and Kari blinked at them, and could not speak.

"Well?" asked the old Puralka, watching her closely. "Do you not think that wings are only a small price to pay for such dancing?"

"Could you teach me?" Kari asked.

"Easily, if you give up your wings."

Kari gave a great sigh.

"Very well," she said. "I cannot live without knowing how to dance as you do."

"Then, spread your wings out on this stone," said the Puralka.

So Kari spread her great wings across the stone, and the Puralkas cut them off quite close to her body with their sharp beaks.

Then they said,

"Stand up."

Kari stood up, feeling very naked and queer without her wings. Then the Puralkas began to dance again, faster and faster; and they danced upon her wing-feathers that had been cut off, scattering them with their feet until there were not two left together, and the wind came and took the feathers, so that they floated away over the tops of the trees and mounted out of sight. Then the Puralkas laughed again, just as they had laughed before, until Kari's head rang with the noise of it.

"When will you teach me?" she asked timidly.

"Teach you!" cried the Puralkas. "What a joke! What a joke!" They burst out laughing again. Then, to Kari's amazement, they unfolded their wings and shook them in her face. The whole green patch of grass was full of the fluttering of the long grey wings.

"You said you had none!" she cried.

"What a joke! What a joke!" screamed the Puralkas, flapping her with their wings. They spun round and round her, their long legs dancing madly, and their wings quivering and fluttering. Then they suddenly mounted into the air, circled about her once or twice, and flew away through the trees. The sound of their wicked laughter grew fainter and fainter until it died away.

Kari sat down and put her head down on the ground. After a while she got up and tried to fly, but the little stumps of her wings would not raise her an inch from the earth, and very soon she ceased to try. She sat down again.

Later on, she stood up and began to try to dance as the Puralkas had done. She moved her great feet in the same way, and tried to sway about; but it was useless. She looked so comical, hopping round on her thick legs, that the Jackass, which had all the time sat in the gum-tree overhead, broke into a great shout of laughter, and all the Bush rang with the sound. "Ha-ha-ha-ha!—ho-ho-ho-ho!" screamed the Jackass. "Kari is trying to dance—look at her! There never was anything half so funny—ha-ha-ha! ho-ho-ho!"

Then Kari knew that she had lost her wings for nothing; that she could never dance like the Puralkas, and that—worst of all—she could never go back to her nest in the clouds. She could not bear the harsh laughter of the Jackass, and so she ran away, her long legs taking great strides, crashing into the undergrowth of the Bush. Then the Jackass flew away, still chuckling to himself that anyone could be so stupid. Soon the little green patch of grass was quite deserted; until the sun set, when the cruel Puralkas came flying back to it and danced again. But Kari never came to it.

So the Emu lives on earth, and has forgotten all about the nest she once had in the drifting clouds. She has no friends among the birds, for though she is a bird herself, she has no wings, and cannot fly. She has taught herself to run very fast, and to kick with her big feet, so that it is not wise to make her angry. Because she used to live in the clouds and had no proper training, she will eat the most extraordinary things—stones, and nails, and pieces of iron and glass, which the blacks have brought into the Bush—but they never seem to disagree with her. She is not a very happy bird, for all the time she keeps hoping that her wings will grow long again and that she will be able to fly back to find her cloud-nest. But they never grow.

Always since then, Merkein, the Jackass, has been able to laugh. He is called the Laughing Jackass, because of this. He has been a merry fellow ever since he sat on the gum-tree and watched Kari trying to dance, after the cruel Puralkas had robbed her of her wings and left her far away from her nest in the white clouds.

CHAPTER I

Long ago, black people were scattered all over the earth, and the forests and plains were full of them. But a great flood came. For weeks it rained all day and all night, until nearly all the plains were great swamps. Then the snow was washed from the hills, and the rivers and creeks overflowed their banks, and swept over the country. There was scarcely anything to be seen except the tops of the tallest trees sticking out of the waters that covered the land. All the camps were washed away, and nearly all the people were drowned.

In one tribe, the only people left alive were a man and three women. Their camp was near a river; and when the flood came and the river rose and washed away the wurleys, they clung to a great log that lay upon the bank. It was so huge a log that they did not think any flood would ever move it. But they had seen only little floods, and they did not know what the river could do when it rose in its wrath.

The water crept higher and higher as they clung to the log, and at length they felt its great length give a little shiver beneath them. Presently it shifted a little, and the water slipped below it; and soon it swung right round until one end pointed over the bank. Still the flood came rising and rising, and presently a wave flowed right over the log and washed off some of the people who were clinging to it. But the man and the three women dug their fingers into knot-holes and cracks, and held on desperately.

Then a fresh rush of water took the log, and it bumped heavily three times on the bank and slid off into the water. At first, its weight took it under the surface, and the four blacks, feeling the cold dark water close over their heads, made sure that Death had come for them. Still they gripped the log, and presently it rose, and the current whirled it round and sent it off downstream. It bumped heavily on a snag, and one of the women fell off, crying for help as she went. The man leaned over quickly and by good chance gripped her by the hair. Somehow, half pulled, half climbing, she managed to scramble back, and got another grip upon the sodden wood. Then the flood carried them into the darkness.

All through the cold blackness of the night they held to their rocking place of refuge. Sometimes it went aground, with a jar that shook it through its great length, and hung awhile before a fresh spurt of water washed it off again, to float away into the storm-riven night once more. Then there would come bends in the river, when the current would fail to take the log round quickly enough, because it was so long; and it would sail on and ram its nose into the bank, running so far into the soft mud that perhaps an hour would creep past before the washing of the water worked it loose again. Then the log would swing right round, shaking in the eddies, until it seemed that numbed fingers could hold no longer. But still the terrified blacks held on, while their raft spun down the stream once more, with the cold waves splashing over their shivering bodies.

Dawn broke slowly, in the mist of driving rain, and showed them a country covered as far as they could see with water. On either side of the river, the topmost ridge of the high banks still could be seen: but soon these were almost submerged and the log floated in the midst of a great brown sea.

About two hours after sunrise a sudden swirl of water took the log and floated it out upon the top of the left-hand bank. It came to rest with a shock, and one of the women loosened her grip and fell off, with a mournful little cry that she could hold on no more. But to her surprise, the water was only up to her knees, and the log lay at rest beside her, its voyage over.

The man, whose name was Karwin, grunted as he straightened his stiffened limbs, slipping down into the water beside the woman.

"That was good luck for you, Murla," he said. "If the water had been any deeper you would have gone for ever, for there is no strength left in me to pull you out."

"I thought it was the end," said Murla, her teeth chattering with cold. "And, as far as I can see, it might as well have been the end, for it is better to die quickly than slowly, and we shall never get out of this dreary place."

"That is very likely," said Karwin. "But still I am glad to be able to let go of that shaking log and stand upright once more."

The other women had scrambled to a sitting position on the log, and were rubbing their stiffened limbs.

"I think those who stayed in camp will have died more comfortably than we shall," said one. "How are we to get any food?"

"Oh, there will be no food," Karwin answered. "Unless the flood goes down very quickly, we shall certainly starve. I do not even know where we are, and I have no weapons. Ky! none of our forefathers ever knew such a flood! It is something to have seen it!"

Pund-jel, who was Maker of Men, sat in his high place one day and looked at the world. The blacks believed that in the very long ago he had made the first men and women out of clay; and from there they had spread over all the earth. Pund-jel had made them to be good and happy, and for a long while he had been satisfied with them. But now it was different, and he was angry.

All over the world he could see his black people. They had grown tall and strong, and he thought them beautiful. They were skilled in hunting, and fierce in battle: the women were clever at making rugs of skins, at cooking, at weaving curious mats and baskets of pliant rushes. The forests were full of game for them—-birds, beasts and reptiles, all good to eat: there were fish in the lakes and rivers, fat mud-eels in the creeks and swamps, and gum and manna to be found on every hill-side. The world was a good, green world, and there should have been only happiness. But the people themselves had grown wicked.

Pund-jel bent his brows with anger as he looked down upon them. Instead of being peaceful and content, his people had grown fierce and savage. They thought only of fighting and conquest, and were too lazy to work. The laws that he had made for them were as naught in their eyes. They said, "Oh, Pund-jel is very far away. He will never come down into our world to see what we do. Why should we obey him?" So they did just as they pleased, and all the world was evil because of their wickedness.

Pund-jel thought gravely as he looked down into his world, and all the sky was dark with the blackness of his frown.

"My people have grown too many," he said. "When they were few, each helped the other: there was no time for feuds or fighting, for all had to work together in order to live. Now all is changed. They are many and powerful, and they over-run the world, and each man hates his brother. It were better if I made them fewer, and scattered them far and wide. I will send my whirlwinds upon the earth."

So Pund-jel caused storms and fierce winds to arise often, and they swept across the world. In the flat lands there came suddenly whirlwinds of great force, that twisted and eddied through the plains, carrying men aloft in their choking embrace, and letting them fall, broken and dead, miles away from the places where they had lived. On the mountains great hurricanes blew shrieking from peak to peak, tearing up the largest trees by their roots, and tossing them down into the fern-strewn gullies far below. Huge boulders were loosened and went crashing down; and often a landslip followed them, when all the soil would be stripped from a hill-side and fall, thundering, carrying with it hundreds of people and leaving the bare rock behind it, like a scar upon the side of the mountain. Thunder and lightning came and shook the world with terror: mighty trees were riven and shattered, and fires swept through forest and plain, leaving blackness and desolation behind. Then came floods, that covered the low-lying parts of the earth, and made of the rivers roaring torrents, that ran madly to the sea. The world trembled in the terror of the wrath of Pund-jel.

And yet, men had grown so wise and cunning that not very many died. When the whirlwinds and hurricanes came, they crept into holes in the hill-sides, or sheltered themselves in deep gullies. They strengthened their houses, so that the wind should not blow them away. Sometimes they floated down the rivers in bark canoes; and a great number found refuge in caves. Those who were killed were the careless ones, who would not take the trouble to protect themselves against the fury of the storms, thinking that they would only be ordinary gales; but though they died, innumerable people were left.

Just for a little while, they were afraid. They knew they were wicked, and that Pund-jel must be angry with them; and the thought that possibly the storms were the message of his wrath made them careful for awhile. But as time passed they forgot the storms and whirlwinds, and the fate of their brothers and sisters who had been killed; and they went back to their wickedness, becoming worse than they had been before.

And then there came a day when Pund-jel's anger broke anew.

One morning a blackness came out of the sky, and in the blackness a flame of gleaming fire. The people clustered together, in terror, and there were cries of "Pund-jel! Pund-jel is coming!" Then the magic-men began to chatter and make Magic, hoping to turn the wrath of the Maker of Men; and the people flung themselves upon the ground, crying aloud, and calling upon the good Spirits to save them.

The blackness swooped down upon the earth. In the air were strange whisperings and mutterings, as if even the rustling leaves and the boughs of the trees were crying, "Pund-jel is coming!" And then, out of the glowing heart of the cloud came Pund-jel himself, that he might see these men and women that he had made. He spoke no word. His glance was like lightnings, playing about the stricken eyes of those that gazed. But he trod among the black multitudes, and the noise of the trampling of his feet shook the earth.

In his hand he carried his great stone knife, and the sight of it was very terrible. Those who looked upon it fell back blindly. But as he walked on he cut his way among the people, with great sweeps of the cruel weapon, sparing none that came in his way, and cutting them into small fragments. And then the blackness of the cloud received him again, and hid him from the people of the world.

But the pieces of the slain were not dead. Each fragment moved, as Tur-ror, the worm, moves; and from them rose a cry. It came from the fragments of those who had been good men and good women, yet who had met Death at the knife of Pund-jel with the guilty ones.

Then a great and terrible storm came out of the sky, sweeping over the places where Pund-jel had trod; and with it a whirlwind, that gathered up the pieces of those who had been men, women and children, and they became like flakes of snow, white and whirling in the blackness of the air. They were carried away into the clouds.

And when they came to where Pund-jel sat, once more looking down upon the world, he took the flakes that had been bad men and women, and with his hand scattered them so far over the earth that no man could say where they fell. So they passed for ever from the sight of man, and now they lie in the waste places of the world, where there is neither light nor day.

But Pund-jel took the snowflakes that had been good men and women, and he made them into stars. Right up into the blue sky he flung them; and the sky caught them and held them fast, and the light of the sun fell upon them so that they caught some of his brightness. There they stay for ever, and you would not know that they are in any way different from the other stars that twinkle at you on a frosty night when the sky is all blue and silver. Only the magic-men, who know everything, can tell you which among the stars were once good men, women and children, before Pund-jel left his high seat to punish the wickedness of the world.

The blacks believed that the earth was quite flat, with the sky arched above it. They had an idea that if anyone could get beyond the edge of the sky he would come to another country, with rivers and trees, where live the ghosts of all the people who have died. Some thought that there was water all round the edge of the earth. They were taught that at first the sky had lain flat on the ground, so that neither sun, moon, nor stars could move, but the magpies came along and propped it up with long sticks, resting some parts on the mountains near the edge. And sometimes word was sent from tribe to tribe, saying that the props were growing rotten, and unless the people sent up tomahawks to cut new props, the sky would fall. In its falling it would burst, and all the people would be drowned. This used to alarm the blacks greatly, and they would make the magic-men weave charms so that the sky should not fall.

At first, all the earth was in darkness; and at that time there lived among the blacks a man called Dityi. In his tribe was a very beautiful woman whose name was Mitjen; and she became Dityi's wife.

At first Dityi and Mitjen were very happy. They had plenty to eat, and the camp was warm and comfortable, and they loved each other very much. There were no white men, at that time: the blacks ruled all their country, which they thought was the whole world. The forests were full of game, and the rivers of fish: every one had enough, so there was no fighting. And Dityi thought he was the luckiest man in the world, because he had won the love of Mitjen.

But a stranger came to the camp: a tall dark-eyed man named Bunjil. He told stories of far-away forests and wonderful things to be found there. The other blacks used to listen to him, greatly interested; and no one listened more attentively than Mitjen, for she had a great longing to see the wonderful places of which Bunjil spoke. When she heard him tell stories of these strange lands of the Bush, she burned to leave her quiet home and go exploring. Dityi could not understand this feeling at all. It interested him to hear Bunjil's tales, but he had no wish to do more than hear them. He was very well satisfied with his life, and thought that his own home was better than any other place could possibly be.

But Bunjil soon noticed the dark-eyed girl who never lost a word of his stories. It amused him to see her face light up and her eyes sparkle at his talk; and so he told more and more stories, and did not always trouble to make them true, so long as he could make Mitjen look interested. Sometimes he would meet her wandering alone outside the camp, and then he would tell her, as if he were sorry for her, that this quiet camp was no place for her at all. "You are so beautiful," he would say, "that you should be far away in my wonderful country, where you would see many great men and lovely women; but none more lovely than Mitjen. In this dull hole you are buried alive."

None of this was true, but Bunjil spoke exactly as if it were, and after a time Mitjen began to be very discontented. The simple happy life in the Bush pleased her no longer; she only wanted the exciting things of which Bunjil told. At home, everybody was good to her and liked her, but she was only a girl who had to obey other people all the time, and no one but Dityi had ever troubled about telling her that she was beautiful. Moreover, she could see that Bunjil did not think much of Dityi. He called him one day to Mitjen, "an ignorant black fellow," and though Mitjen could not imagine any people who were not black, it sounded very uncomplimentary, and she could not forget it. As soon as he had said it, Bunjil apologized, saying that it was only a slip of the tongue—but in her heart Mitjen knew this was not true. It made her look down on Dityi a little, and wonder if he were really worthy of her.

One day she asked him if he would take her to Bunjil's country, and his surprise prevented him from speaking for some time. He could only look at her, with his mouth open.

"Go away from home!" he said at last. "Why? What is there to go for?"

"To see the world," said Mitjen, tossing her head. "I do not want to stay for ever in this weary place."

"But it is the world—or most of it," returned Dityi. "I do not know where Bunjil's country is—but the men there cannot be up to much if they are like him, for he is more useless than anyone I ever saw. He cannot throw a boomerang better than a girl, and with a spear I could beat him with my left hand!"

"You are boastful," said Mitjen coldly. "Throwing weapons is not everything."

"Well, I don't know how things are managed in Bunjil's country, but it is very important in ours that a man should know how to throw," said Dityi. "Perhaps Bunjil's game comes close to him to be killed, but here a man has to hunt it. Did Bunjil mention if it came ready cooked too? I don't suppose you would want to do any work in that country of his!"

This made Mitjen very angry, and she quarrelled fiercely with Dityi for making fun of her; and then Dityi lost his temper and beat her a little, which was quite a usual thing to happen to a woman among the blacks. But Mitjen had been told by Bunjil that in his country a man never raised his hand against a woman. So it made her furious to be beaten by Dityi, though he cared for her too much really to hurt her, and she broke away from him and ran to the camp, sobbing that she hated him and did not want to see him any more.

Near the camp she met Bunjil, who asked her why she was crying; and when she told him, he was kind to her, patting her gently, and pretending to be very angry with Dityi. He was safe in doing this, for Dityi had gone off whistling into the Bush—not sorry that he had beaten Mitjen, if it should make her sensible again, but sorry that she was unhappy, and resolved to bring her back a snake or something equally nice for supper. So Bunjil ran no risk in abusing him, and he did it heartily. When they had finished talking, Mitjen walked away from him into the camp with a very determined face. She went straight to her wurley, and though Dityi brought her home a beautiful young snake and a lace-lizard, she would eat nothing and refused to come out of the wurley to speak to him. So Dityi went back to the young men's huts, angry and offended, and Mitjen lay down, turning her face to the wall. She was just as determined; but only her own heart knew how much she was afraid.

When the people of the camp awoke, she was gone. Nowhere was there any trace of her. And when the blacks went to look for Bunjil, in his wurley, he was gone, too. Then they fell into a great rage, and the young men painted themselves in white stripes with pipeclay, and went forth in pursuit, carrying all their arms, and led by Dityi. But though they looked for many days, they could never come upon a track; and so at last the other young men gave up the search, and went back to the camp. But Dityi did not go back. There was nothing for him at home now that he had lost Mitjen; and so he went on, hunting through the dark forests for his lost love.

Bunjil and Mitjen had fled far into the Bush. For a long time they walked in the creek, so that they would leave no tracks, and if they came to deep holes, they swam them. They were far away from Mitjen's country before they dared to leave the water, and already the girl was tired. But Bunjil would not let her stop to rest, for he knew that they would be pursued. He hurried her on, forgetting now to be gentle when he spoke to her.

It was not many days before Mitjen realized the terrible mistake she had made. They fled deeper and deeper into the Bush, but no wonderful country came in sight. She was often cold and hungry, and Bunjil made her work harder than she had ever worked before, doing not only the woman's work, but a large share of the man's. She found out that he was almost too lazy to get food, and if she had not hunted for game herself, she would never have had enough to eat. Bunjil had told her that he loved her, but very soon she knew that this was not true, and that all he had wanted was a woman to cook for him and help him procure food.

At first she used to ask him when they would come to his own country, and he would put her off, saying, "Presently—pretty soon." But before long she found that it made him angry to be asked about it; and at last, if she spoke of it, he beat her cruelly. So Mitjen did not ask any more.

Then all the memories of Dityi and his love came crowding upon her, and her heart quite broke. She did not want to live any more. She lay down under a big log, and when Bunjil spoke to her there was no answer. So he kicked her, and left her. But after he had slept, he went to see why she lay so still; and he found that she was dead.

As he looked at her, a great storm came out of the Bush and whirled him away. It flung him far up in the sky, where you may see him now, if you look closely: a lonely, wandering star, finding no rest anywhere, and no mate. Always he must wander on and on, and never stop, no matter how tired he may be; and the other stars shrink from him, hurrying away if they cross his path.

The storm took Mitjen also, and carried her gently into the sky; and there she saw Dityi, who lit it all up, for he had been turned into the Sun, and was giving light to the earth. But always, the blacks say, he is seeking Mitjen. Like a great fire, he leaps through the sky, mourning for his love and going back and forth in ceaseless quest of her. His wurley is in Nganat, just over the edge of the earth; and the bright colour of sunset is caused by the spirits of the dead going in and out of Nganat, while Dityi looks among them for his lost love. But he never finds her; and so next day he begins to hunt again, and goes tramping across the sky. Sometimes he shouts her name—"Mitjen! Mitjen!"—and it is then that we hear Thunder go rolling round the world. But Mitjen never answers.

She has been made the Moon, and always she mourns far away and alone. When she sees the glory of the Sun, and hears his trampling feet, she hides herself, for now she is ashamed to let him find her. She only comes from her hiding-place when he sleeps; and then she hurries through the sky, so that she may have the comfort of going in his footsteps, though she knows now that she can never hope to overtake him. Sometimes she sighs, and then a soft breeze flutters over the earth; and the big rain is the tears that relieve her grief.

Before Pund-jel, Maker of Men, peopled the earth with the black tribes, and very long before the first white man came to Australia, the animals which inhabited the land fell into a great trouble. And this is how it happened. Old Conara, the black chief, told it to me while we were fishing for cod in the Murray one hot night; and he had it from his father, whose mother had told him about it; while to her the story had come from her grandfather, who said he was a little boy when his grandfather had told him, saying he had had the story from Conara, the magpie, after whom he was named. And the magpies learn everything, so you see he ought to know.

Conara said that once in the long-ago time, all the animals were living very cheerfully together, when suddenly all the water disappeared. They went to sleep with the creeks and swamps full, and the rivers running; and when they woke up, everything was dry. Of course, this was the most terrible thing that could happen to the animals, for though they can manage with very little food in Australia, at a pinch, they must always have plenty of water. They searched everywhere for it, through the scrub and over the plains; and the birds flew great distances, always seeking with their eyes for a gleam of water. But it had quite gone.

So the animals held a council of war, and Mirran, the Kangaroo, spoke to them. At a council, some one must always speak first, to tell those present what they know already; and Mirran did this very thoroughly, so that little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, went to sleep and began to climb up the legs of the Emu in his sleep, thinking she was a tree. This led to a disturbance, and it was some time before Mirran could go on again with his speech. Then he found he had forgotten the rest of what he meant to say, so he contented himself by asking them all what they meant to do about it, and remarking that the matter was now open for discussion. This is a remark often made at meetings.

Then Mirran sat down thankfully, but in his relief at finishing his speech he sat on Kowern, the Porcupine; and Kowern is the most uncomfortable seat in the Bush. Mirran got up more quickly than he had sat down, and again there was disorder in the meeting, especially as the Jackass was unfeeling enough to laugh.

When matters were more quiet, Kellelek, the Cockatoo, made a long speech, but it was hard to understand what he said, because all his brothers would persist in speaking at the same time. Every one knew that he wanted water, but as every one was in the same fix, it did not seem to help along matters to have him say so. Booran, the Pelican, was even more troubled about it than Kellelek, for of course he lived on the water, and he wanted fish badly. All the fish had disappeared, and the eels had buried themselves deep in the soft mud of the beds of the rivers and creeks, and none of the water-fowl had any food. The Red Wallaby, Waat, and old Warreen, the bad-tempered Wombat, made speeches, and so did Meri, the black Dingo, and Tonga, the 'Possum, and a great many other animals. But not one could suggest any means of getting water back, or form an idea as to how it had gone away.

They were all talking together, getting rather hot and excited, and very thirsty, when they heard a sudden whirr of wings overhead, and a bird came dropping down into their midst. It was Tarook, the Sea Gull, and though at first they were inclined to be angry at his sudden appearance, they soon saw that he had news to communicate, and so they crowded round him and begged him to speak. Tarook was a proud bird, and did not often leave his beloved sea; so they knew that something important must have brought him so far inshore.

He stood in their midst, dainty and handsome, with his snowy feathers and scarlet legs, and carefully brushed a fragment of grass from his wing before replying.

"Waga, the Fish-Hawk, came along this morning—in a shocking temper, too—and told me of your difficulties," he said. "Well, we of the sea know what has caused them!"

There was an instant hubbub. All the animals and birds cried out at once, saying, "What is it?" Tarook looked at them all calmly.

"If you make such a clatter, how can I tell you?" he asked crossly. "I have not much time either, because my mate and I have youngsters to look after, and it is nearly time I got back to find their dinner."

The animals became silent at once, and looked at him anxiously.

"Three nights ago," said Tarook, "Tat-e-lak, the big Frog, came out of the sea. Every one knows he lives there, but none of us had ever seen him—and he is as large as many wurleys. All the sea was troubled at his coming, and big waves rolled in and beat upon the shore, so that we could scarcely see the rocks for spray. A hollow booming sound came from under the sea, and all our young ones were very much alarmed. Then a wave larger than all the rest put together crashed into the beach, and when it began to roll back we saw Tat-e-lak waddling up the shore. Most frogs hop, but he is so huge that he gets along in a kind of shuffle."

"But where did he go?" cried Kadin, the Inguana-lizard.

"He waddled away into the plains beyond, and when I flew in to look for him, for awhile I could not find him. Then I heard a strange noise of water sucking, and I flew to where it came from. There was a hollow in the creek bank, and Tat-e-lak was sitting there, with his head in the water, sucking it all up; and as he sucked, he swelled. It was not a nice sight, and soon I flew away."

"But where is he now? And what did he do?" asked the animals anxiously.

"I did not watch him any more. But the West Wind knows all about him, and he told me when I was out fishing last night. It seems that Tat-e-lak lives under the sea, because of his former sins, and that is why he has grown so huge. But he always wants to come back to land, and sometimes he breaks away from his prison under the sea and gets up to the surface—and a great stir his coming makes: it's very annoying if you're fishing, for it scares all the fish away into the farthest corners of the rocks. But the salt water he has drunk for so long makes him terribly thirsty, and unless he can get fresh water to drink he has to go back to his sea-prison."

"Then that is why he has drunk all of ours!" cried the animals.

Tarook nodded very hard.

"Yes," he said. "It is very seldom that he gets a chance of coming up; and his last three landings have been made in the desert, where he has had no water at all, and has been forced to hurry back meekly to the sea. So he is now more thirsty than he ever was before. The West Wind says he did not stop drinking until this morning—and now there is no water anywhere, as you know."

"Then how shall we ever get any more? Are we to die of thirst?"

"Well, that I do not know. I have told you all that I know," said Tarook. "Tat-e-lak is somewhere on shore, and so far as I can tell, all the water is inside him. But I do not know where he is, nor if you can do anything. Now I must go back to my young ones, for they will certainly be hungry, and my mate will be cross." He bowed to the Kangaroo, and flew up into the air. Then he went skimming over the forest to the sea.

When he had gone, the animals talked again, but there was great grief among them, and they did not know what to do. At last it was agreed that Malian, the Eaglehawk, should fly to the shore and find out anything he could about Tat-e-lak. So huge a Frog, they thought, could not hide himself from the eyes of an Eaglehawk, which can see even a little shrew-mouse in the grass as he flies. So Mirran, the Kangaroo, bade Malian be as quick as possible, and he flew off, while all the people awaited his return as patiently as they could. But they were too thirsty to be very patient.

It was evening when Malian returned. The day had seemed very long, and he was tired, for it is not easy to fly for a long while without water.

"Tat-e-lak is the most terrible Frog you could imagine," he said. "He is squatting on a rise not far from the sea, and he has drunk so much that he cannot move. His body is swelled up so that he is bigger than anything that ever existed: bigger than the little hill on which he sits. Nothing could possibly be so large as he is. He does not speak at all."

"But what is to be done?" cried the other animals.

"I asked every one I met, but they could not tell me. So at last I found old Blook, the Bullfrog, for it struck me that he would know more of the ways of other Frogs than anyone else. I found him with great difficulty, and for a long time he was too angry to speak, for he has now no water to remain in, and none to drink. But he knows all about Tat-e-lak. He says that now he has inside him all the waters that should cover the waste places of the earth, but that we shall never have water unless he can be made to laugh!"

"To laugh!" cried the animals. "Who can make a Frog laugh?"

"Blook knows he cannot, so that is why he is angry," answered Malian. "But that is the only way. If Tat-e-lak laughs, all the water will run out of his mouth, and there will once more be plenty for every one. But unless he laughs he will sit there for ever, unable to move; and soon we shall all die of thirst."

The animals talked over this bad news for a long time, and at last they agreed that every one who could be at all funny must go and try to make Tat-e-lak laugh. A great many at once said that they could be funny; but when they were tried, their performances were so dull that most of those who looked on were quite annoyed, and refused to let them go near the Frog, for fear he should lose his temper instead of laughing. However, every one was too thirsty to wait to try all those willing to undertake to make him merry: and they set off through the Bush in a queer company, the animals running, hopping or walking, the snakes and reptiles crawling, and the birds flying overhead. "The water will run back to you before we do!" they cried to the wives and young ones they were leaving behind. But that was just a piece of brave talk, for in reality they did not feel at all sure about it. They hurried through the scrub, getting more and more scattered as they went along, for the swift ones would not wait for those who were slower. In the early morning the leaders came out of the trees, and found themselves on a swampy plain leading to the sea. All the water had dried up, and a creek that had its course through it was also dry. It was a very dreary-looking place.

Not far from the beach there was a little hill; and, sitting on it, they saw the monster Frog. He was a terrible creature in appearance, for he was so immense that the hill was lost under him, just like a hugely fat man sitting on a button mushroom. He was so swelled up that it seemed that if anything pricked him he would burst like a balloon; but when they came near him they saw how thick his skin was, and knew that no prick would go through it. His beady eyes were bulging out, and though they tried to attract his attention, he only gazed out to sea and took no notice of them at all.

"Well, he has certainly had a great drink, but he does not look as if he had enjoyed it," remarked Mirran, hopping round him.

"I should think he would find himself more comfortable under the sea than sitting on that poor little hill!" said Merkein, the Jackass.

"He will probably go back to the sea," the Native Companion answered. "Let us hope he will not take all the water with him."

"How uncomfortable he must be!—why, he is like a mountain!" hissed Mumung, the Black Snake. "May I not go and bite him?"

"Certainly not!" said Mirran hastily. "It might make him angry; or he might die, and we do not want the water poisoned. Unless you can make him laugh, you had better get into your hole!" So Mumung subsided, muttering angrily to himself.

Then the animals began to try to make the Frog laugh. It was the first circus that ever was in Australia. They danced and capered and pranced before him, and the birds sang him the most ridiculous songs they could think of, and the insects sat on his head and told him the funniest stories they had gathered in flying round the world: but he did not take the smallest notice of any of them. His bulging eyes saw them all, but not a word did he say.

It is very hard to be funny when nobody laughs, and the animals soon became rather disheartened. But Mirran would not let them stop. He himself did most wonderful jumps before the Frog, and once hopped right over the Emu, who looked so comical when she saw the great body sailing over her that all the animals burst out laughing; but the Frog merely looked as though he would like to go to sleep. Then Menak, the Bandicoot, brought his brothers, and performed all kinds of antics; and the 'Possums climbed up a little tree and hung from its boughs, and were very funny in their gymnastics; and the Dingo and his tribe held a coursing match round the hill on which the Frog sat, going so fast that no one could see where one yellow dog ended and the next began; but none of these things amused the Frog at all. He stared straight in front of him, and, if possible, he looked a little more bulgy. But that was all.

The animals held another council, and tried to think of other funny things. Mirran remembered how the Jackass had laughed when he had sat down on Kowern, the Porcupine, and though that had been a most unpleasant experience for him, he bravely offered to do it again. Kowern, however, did not like the idea, and scuttled away into a hole, and they had great difficulty in finding him—and when they did find him, it was quite another matter to make him come out. At last they induced him to appear, and to let Mirran sit on him. But it was not a successful experiment. Perhaps Mirran was nervous, for he knew how it felt to sit on Kowern's quills; and so he let himself down gently, and Kowern gave a heavy groan, but no one even smiled. As for the Frog, he was heard to snore. It was all rather hard on Mirran, for the experiment hurt him just as much as if it had been quite successful.

So the day went on, and when it was nearly evening, the animals could do no more: and still Tat-e-lak sat and stared stupidly before him, and looked more and more huge and bulgy in the gathering darkness; and Waat, the Red Wallaby, declared that the little hill he sat on was beginning to flatten under his weight. They were quite hopeless, at last. All were so tired and thirsty that they could not have attempted more antics, even had they known any, but, indeed, they had done everything they knew. They sat in a half-circle round the great Frog and looked at him sadly; and the Frog sat on his hill and did not look at anything at all.

Just about this time, Noy-Yang, the great Eel, woke up. He was lying in a deep crack in the muddy bed of the creek, and when the mud dried and hardened it pinched him, and he squirmed and woke. To his surprise, there was no water anywhere. Noy-Yang wriggled out of his crack, very astonished and indignant.

He found all the creek-bed dry, as you know; so he wriggled across it and up the bank, and came out on a little mud-flat by the sea. There he looked about him. On one side the sea rippled, but Noy-Yang knew that its water was no good for him. On the other was only dry land—the swampy ground he knew and loved, but now there was no water in it. It was very puzzling to a sleepy Eel.

He looked a little farther and saw the great Frog sitting on his hill. But he looked so huge that Noy-Yang thought the hill had simply grown bigger while he slept; and though that was surprising, it was not nearly so surprising as finding no water. Then he saw all the animals sitting about him, but he took no notice of them. All he cared for was to get away from this hot, dry mud, and find a cool creek running over its soft bed.

So he wriggled on, making very good time across the flat. Nobody saw him, for all the animals were looking miserably at the Frog.

Kowern, the Porcupine, had felt very sore and bruised after Mirran had sat on him for the second time. He was a sulky fellow, and he did not want to be sat on any more, even if it were for the good of all the people. "Mirran will be making a habit of this soon," he said crossly; "I will get out of the way." So he hurried off, and got into the nearest hole, which happened to be near the edge of the mud-flat. There he went to sleep.

Noy-Yang came wriggling along, hating the hard ground, and only wanting to get to a decent creek. He was in such a hurry that he did not see Kowern, and he wiggled right across him—and it seemed to him that each of Kowern's spines found a different place in his soft body.

Noy-Yang cried out very loudly and threw himself backwards to get off those dreadful spikes. He was too sore to creep at all: the only part of him that was not hurt was the very point of his tail, and he stood up on that and danced about in his wrath and pain, with his body wriggling in the air, and his mouth wide open. And when the monster Frog caught sight of the Eel dancing on his tail on the mud-flat, he opened his mouth and let out such a great shout of laughter as had never been heard before in the world or will ever be heard again.

Then all the waters came rushing out of the Frog's mouth, and in a moment the dry swamp was filled with it, and a sheet of water rushed over the mud-flat where Noy-Yang was dancing, and carried him away—which was exactly what Noy-Yang liked, and made him forget all his sores. It was not so nice for Kowern, the Porcupine, for he was swept away, too, and as he could not swim, he was drowned. But he was so bad-tempered that nobody cared very much.

Tat-e-lak went on laughing, and the water kept pouring out of his open mouth; and as he laughed he shrank and shrank, and his skin became flabby and hung in folds about him. He shrank until he was only as large as a few ordinary frogs put together: and then he gave a loud croak, and dived off into the water. He swam away, and none of the animals ever saw him again.

At that moment the animals were much too busy with their own affairs to think much about Tat-e-lak. When the water first appeared they rushed at it eagerly, and each drank as much as he could. Then they felt better, and looked about them. Mirran, the Kangaroo, was the first to make a discovery.

"Ky! It will be a flood!" said he.

"A flood—nonsense!" said Warreen, the Wombat. "Why, ten minutes ago it was a drought!"

"Yes, and now it will be a flood," said Mirran, watching keenly. "Look!"

The water had run all over the plain, filling up the swamp, and already the creek showed like a line of silver where but a few moments ago there had been only dry mud. But it was plain that the water could not get away quickly enough. All the plain was like a sea, and there were big waves washing round the little hills.

"Save yourselves!" cried Mirran, to the people. "Soon there will be no dry land at all!"

He set off with great bounds, thinking of his mate and the little ones he had left in the forest. Behind him came all the people, running, jumping and crawling; and behind them came the water, in one great wave. Some reached the high ground of the forest first, and found safety, and others took refuge on hills, while those that could climb fled up trees. But many could not get away quickly, and the waters caught them, and they were drowned.

Next morning the animals who were saved gathered at the edge of the forest and looked over the flood. It stretched quite across the plain, and between it and the sea was only the yellow line of the sand-hummocks. Nearer to the forest were a few little hills, and on these could be seen forlorn figures, huddling together for warmth—for the air had become very cold.

"There are some of our people!" cried Mirran in a loud voice. "How are we to rescue them?"

No one could answer this question. None of the animals could swim, and if they had been able to do so, they had still no way of getting the castaways to dry land. They could only look at them and weep because they were so helpless.

After awhile, Booran, the Pelican, came flying up, in a state of great excitement.

"Have you seen them?" he cried. "Waat is there, and little Tonga, the 'Possum, and old Warreen, and a lot of others; and soon they will die of cold and hunger if they are not saved. So I must save them."

"You!" said all the animals.

"There's no need to say it in that tone!" said Booran angrily. "I can make a canoe and sail over quite easily. It will please me very much to save the poor things."

So Booran cut a big bark canoe, which he called Gre. He was very proud of it, and would not let anyone touch it or help him at all; and when it was finished he got in and paddled over to the little islands where the animals shivered and shook, with soaked fur and heavy hearts. They grew excited when they saw Booran coming, and when he arrived, with his canoe, they nearly tipped it over by all trying to get in at once. This was repeated at each island, and at last Booran lost his temper altogether and threatened to leave them all where they were. This dreadful idea made them very meek, and they were quite silent as Booran paddled them towards the shore.

Now, Booran had not a pleasant nature. It did not suit him to find people meek, for it at once made him conceited and inclined to be a bully. He felt very important, to be taking so many animals back in his boat; and so he began to say rude things to them, and in every way to be unpleasant. The animals bore this quietly for a time, for they were too cold to want to dispute with him, and besides, they were really very grateful for being saved. But after a while, he became so overbearing that Waat, the Red Wallaby, answered him back sharply, and others joined in. Before they got to shore, they were all quarrelling violently, and when they had only a few yards to go Booran suddenly stopped paddling, and jumped out so quickly that he upset the canoe, and threw all the animals into the water. He swam off, chuckling, and saying, "That will help to cool your bad tempers!"

The water was not deep, and the animals escaped with only a ducking. They struggled to the dry land, very wet and miserable.

"That was a mean trick to play on us," said little Tonga, his teeth chattering. "I would like to fight Booran, if only he would come ashore. But he will keep out of our way now."

"Ky! Look at him!" said Waat.

They looked, and they saw Booran coming in rapidly, as though he were floating on the water, and had no power to stop himself. His eyes were fixed and glassy, and his great beak wide open. A wave brought him right up on the shore, and blew over him in a cloud of spray. When the spray had gone, Booran had gone, too; and where he had lain on the bank was a big rock, shaped something like a pelican.

That was the story old Conara told me, as we fished for Murray cod together. He said that all his people knew the rock, and called it the Pelican Rock; and it stood on the plain long after Booran and his children's children's children were almost forgotten. To-day the plain is dry, and no water ever lodges there; but when the blacks see the Pelican Rock they think of the time when it was all in flood, when Tat-e-lak, the great Frog, nearly caused all the animals to die of thirst, and when Noy-Yang, the Eel, saved them by dancing on his tail on a mud-flat by the sea.

CHAPTER I

Very long ago, before the white man came to conquer the land, a tribe of black people lived in a great forest. Beyond their country was a range of mountains which separated them from another tribe of fierce and warlike blacks, and on one side they were bounded by the sea. They were a prosperous tribe, for not only was there plenty of game in the forest, to give them food and rugs of skins for clothing, but the sea gave them fish: and fish were useful both to eat and for their bones. The blacks made many things out of fish-bones, and found them very useful for tipping spears and other weapons.

Being so powerful a tribe, they were not much molested by other blacks. The mountains to the north were their chief protection. No wandering parties of fighting men were likely to cross them and surprise the tribe, for they were steep and rugged and full of ravines and deep gullies that were difficult to cross, unless you knew the right tracks. The nearest tribe had come over more than once, and great battles had taken place; but the sea-tribe was always prepared, for the noise of their coming was too great to be hidden. There had been great fights, but the sea-tribe had always won. Now they were too strong to fear any attack. So strong were they, indeed, that they did not trouble about fighting, but only wished to be peaceful. Their life was a very simple and happy one, and they did not want anything better.

The tribe was called the Baringa tribe, and the name of its chief was Wadaro. He was a tall, silent man, very proud of his people and their country, and of his six big sons—all strong fighting-men, like himself—but most of all, he was proud of his daughter, Miraga.

Miraga was just of woman's age, and no girl in all the tribe was so beautiful. She was straight and supple as a young sapling, lissom as the tendrils of the clematis, and beautiful as the dawn striking on the face of the waters. Her deep eyes were full of light, and she was always merry. The little children loved her, and used to bring her blossoms of the red native fuchsia, to twine in her glossy black hair.

Most blacks, men and women, look on everything they meet with one thought. They ask, "Is it good to eat?" But Miraga was different. She had made friends with many of the little animals of the Bush, and they were her playmates: bandicoots, shrew-mice, pouch-mice, kangaroo-rats, and other tiny things. They were quite easy to tame, if anyone tried; even snappy little Yikaura, the native cat, with its spotted body and fierce sharp head, became quite gentle with Miraga, and did not try to touch her other pets. She begged the tribe not to eat the animals she loved, and they consented. Of course, in many tribes it would have been necessary to go on using them for food, and any woman who tried to save them would only have been laughed at. But the Baringa folk had so much food that they could easily afford to spare these little furry things. Besides, it was Miraga who asked, and was she not the chief's daughter?

However, it was not only because she was the chief's daughter that the people loved Miraga and did what she asked them. She was always kind and merry, and went about the camp singing happily, generally with a cluster of children running after her. If anyone were sick she was very good, bringing food and medicines. Being the daughter of Wadaro, the chief, she might have escaped all work; but instead, she did her share, and used to go out digging for yams and other roots with the other girls of the tribe, the happiest of them all.

The tribe beyond the northern hills was called the Burrin. They were very fierce and had many fighting-men; but their country was not so good as that of the Baringa, and they were very jealous of the happy sea-tribe. One time they came to the conclusion that it was long since they had had a fight—and that it would be a very good thing to try and win the Baringa country. They did not want to go over the mountains unprepared. So they sent a picked band of young men, telling them to cross into the land of the Baringas and find out if they were very strong, and if there were still much game in the forest. They were not to fight, but only to prowl in the forest and watch the sea-tribe stealthily. Then they were to return over the mountains with their report, so that the head-men of the Burrin could decide whether it were wise to send all their fighting-men over to try and conquer the Baringa.

The little band of Burrin men set off with great pride. Their leader was the chief's son, Yurong, who was stronger than any man of his tribe, and of a very fierce and cruel nature. He was not yet married, although that was only due to an accident. Once he had been about to take a wife, and had gone to her camp and hit her on the head with a waddy, which was one of the blacks' customs in some tribes, before carrying her to his own wurley. But he hit too hard, and the poor girl died—which caused Yurong a great deal of inconvenience, because her parents wanted to kill him too. It was only because he was the chief's son that he escaped with his life. Now he was still unmarried, because no girl would look at him. It made Yurong more bad-tempered than he was naturally, and that is saying a good deal. He had great hopes from the expedition into the Baringa country. If he came back successful, and won a name for himself as a fighter, he thought that all the maidens of his tribe would admire him, and forget that he had been so ready with his stick when he was betrothed first.

Yurong and his band left the plain where the Burrin tribe roamed, and journeyed over the mountains. They did not find any great difficulties, for they had been told where to find the best tracks, and they had scarcely any loads to hamper them. It was summer-time, and the lightest of rugs served them for covering at night, even in the keener air of the hills. There was no difficulty in finding food or water, and the stars were their guides.

When they came to the country of the Baringas they went very cautiously, for they did not wish to encounter any of Wadaro's men. In the daytime they hid themselves in gullies or in bends of the creek, only coming out when their scouts knew that no enemies were near; but at night they travelled fast, and before long they climbed up a great hill that lay across their path, and from its topmost peak they saw the gleaming line of the sea. Then, watching, they saw camp-fire smoke drifting over the trees; and they knew they had found Wadaro's camp.

They became more careful than ever, knowing that now was their greatest danger. Sometimes they hid in trees, or in caves in the rocks, all the time watching, and noting in their memories the number of the men they saw and the signs of abundance of game. There was no doubt that this was a far better country than their own, and they thirsted to possess it. At the same time they could see how strong the Baringas were. Even their womenfolk were tall and straight and strong, and would help to fight for their land and their freedom. The Burrin men used to see them when they went out to dig in the Bush, a merry, laughing band. Always with them was a beautiful girl with red flowers in her hair. Yurong would watch her closely from his hiding-place, and he made up his mind that when the fighting was over this girl should be the chief part of his share of the spoils. He was so conceited that he never dreamed that his tribe would not win.

But misfortune fell upon Yurong and his little band. They were prowling round the outskirts of Wadaro's camp one night when a woman, hushing her crying baby to sleep, caught a glimpse of the black forms flitting among the trees. She gave the alarm silently, and silently the fighting-men of the Baringas hurled themselves upon the intruders. There was no time to flee: the Burrin men fought fiercely, knowing that escape was hopeless. One by one, they were killed.

Yurong was the last left alive. He turned and ran, when the last of his comrades fell, a dozen Baringas at his heels. The first he slew, turning on him and striking him down; then he ran on wildly, hearing behind him the hard breathing of the pursuing warriors.

Suddenly the ground under his feet gave way. He fell, down, down, into blackness, shouting as he went; then he struck icy water with a great splash. When he came to the surface he could see the moonlight far above him, and hear the voices of the Baringa men, loud and excited. Then he went under once more.

On the river-bank, steep and lofty, the Baringas watched the black pool where Yurong had disappeared. There was no sign of life there.

"He is gone," they said at last. "No man ever came alive out of that place. Well, it is a good thing." They watched awhile longer, and then turned back to the camp, where songs of victory were ringing out among the trees.

CHAPTER II

But Yurong did not die.

When he sank for the second time, he did it on purpose. The fall had not hurt him, and his mind worked quickly, for he knew that only cunning could save him. He swam under water for a few moments, letting himself go with the current. But presently a kind of eddy dragged him down, and he found himself against a wall of rock, which blocked the way, so that there seemed to be no escape. But even in his agony he remembered that so long as the current ran there must be some way out; and he dived deeply into the eddy. It took him through a hole in the rock, far under the water, scraping him cruelly against the edges; but still, he was through, and on the other side he rose, gasping. Here the river was wider and shallower, and not so swift. Yurong let it carry him for awhile; then he scrambled out on one side, and found a hiding-place under a great boulder. He rubbed himself down with rushes, shivering. Then, crouching in his hole, he slept.

When he awoke, he knew that now he should not lose a moment in getting back to his tribe. He had learned the fighting strength of the Baringas, with all else that he had come to find out; but, besides that, he had now the deaths of his comrades to avenge. And yet, three days later, Yurong was still in hiding near the enemy's camp. He had made up his wicked mind that when he went away he would take with him the beautiful girl he had so often seen in the forest with her companions.

Quite unconscious of her danger, Miraga went about her daily work. The sight of her, and the beauty of her, burned into Yurong's brain; often in the forest he dogged her footsteps, but the other girls were always near her, and he dared not try to carry her away. He knew now she was the chief's daughter, and he smiled to think that through her he could deal the cruellest blow to Wadaro, besides gaining for himself the loveliest wife in all the Bush.

But out in the scrub the girls clustered about Miraga, and in the camp the young men were never far from her. There was not one of them who would not have gladly taken her as his bride, but she told her father that she was too young to think of being married, and Wadaro was glad enough to keep her by his side. But Yurong, fiercely jealous, could see that there was one man on whom Miraga's eyes would often turn when he was not looking in her direction—a tall fellow named Konawarr—the Swan—who loved her so dearly that indeed he scarcely gave her a chance to look at him, since he so rarely took his gaze from her! He was the leader of the young fighting-men, and a great hunter; and Yurong thirsted to kill him, as the kangaroos thirst for the creeks in summer, when Drought has laid his withering hand upon the waters.

So five days went by. In the forest Yurong hid, living on very little food—for he dared not often go hunting—and always watching the camp; and Miraga, never dreaming of the danger near her, lived her simple, happy life. The children always thronged round her when she moved about the camp, and she would pause to fondle the little naked black babies that tumbled round the wurleys, tossing them in the air until they shouted with laughter. Yurong saw with amazement how the little animals came to her and played at her feet, and it impressed him greatly with a sense of the wealth of the Baringa tribe. "Ky!" he said to himself, "they are able to use food for playthings!" Never before had he dreamed of such a thing.

One evening the girls went out into the scrub, yam-digging, each carrying her yam-stick and dilly-bag—the netted bag into which the black women put everything, from food to nose-ornaments. Miraga's was woven of red and white rushes, with a quaint pattern on one side, and she was very proud of it, for it had been Konawarr's gift. She was thinking of his kind eyes as she walked through the trees, brushing aside tendrils of starry clematis and wild convolvulus, and finding a way through musk and hazel thickets. He had looked at her very gently when he gave her the bag, and she knew that she could trust him. She was very happy as she wandered on—so happy that she did not notice for a while that she had strayed some distance from the other girls, and that already the shadows were creeping about the forest to make the darkness.

"I am too far from camp," she said aloud. "I must hurry back, or my father will be angry."

She turned to retrace her steps, pausing a moment to make sure of her direction. Then, from the gloom of a tall clump of dogwood, something sprang upon her and seized her. She struggled, sending a stifled cry into the forest—but it died as a heavy blow from a waddy took away her senses. Yurong carried her swiftly away.

Day came, and found them still fleeing, Miraga a helpless burden in her captor's arms. Days and nights passed, and still they travelled northwards, across the rivers, the forest, and the mountains. They went slowly, for at length Yurong could carry the girl no farther, and at first she was too weak to walk much. Even when she grew stronger she still pretended to be weak, doing all in her power to delay their flight—always straining her ears in the wild hope that behind her she might hear the feet of the men coming to save her—led by Wadaro and by Konawarr. Somewhere, she knew, they were searching for her. But as the days went by, and no help came, her heart began to sink hopelessly.

Yurong was not unkind to her. He treated her gently enough, telling her she was to be his wife, but she hated him more and more deeply each hour. Thinking her very weak, he let her travel slowly, and helped her over the rough places, though she shrank from his touch. But he took no risks with her. He kept his weapons carefully out of her reach, and at night, when they slept, he bound her feet and hands with strips of kangaroo-hide, so that she might not try to escape.

Then they came to the topmost crest of the mountains, and below them Yurong could see the country of his people. At that, Miraga gave up all hope. They camped on the ridge that night; and for the first time she sobbed herself to sleep.

She woke up a while later, with a sound of little whispers in her ears. It was quite dark inside the wurley; but she heard a patter of tiny, scurrying feet, and a few faint squeaks. Miraga lay very still, trembling. Then a shrill little voice came, very close to her.

"Mistress—oh, mistress!"

"Who is it?" she whispered.

"We are your Little People," came the faint voice. "Lie very still, and we will set you free!"

On her hand, Miraga felt a patter of tiny feet, like snowflakes falling. They ran all over her body; she felt them down at her bare ankles, and near her face. She knew them now, though it was dark—little Padi-padi, the pouch-mouse, and Punta, the shrew-mouse, and Kanungo, the kangaroo-rat, with the bandicoot, Talka. They were all her friends—her Little People. Dozens of them seemed to be there in the dark, nibbling furiously at the strips of hide on her wrists and ankles.

How long the time seemed as she lay, trembling, in great fear lest Yurong should awaken! The very sound of her own breathing was loud in her ears, and the faint rustlings of the Little People seemed a noise that must surely wake the sleeping warrior. But Yurong was tired, and he slept soundly: and the Little People worked hard. At last the bonds fell apart and she was free.

Gliding like a snake, she crept out of the wurley, and ran swiftly into the forest that clothed the mountains. But scarcely had she gone when Yurong woke and found she was not there.

He sprang to his feet with a shout, grasping his weapons, and rushed outside. There was no sign of Miraga—but his quick ear caught the sound of a breaking twig in the forest, and he raced in pursuit. Again he heard it, this time so close that he knew she could not be more than a few yards away. Then he found himself suddenly on the edge of a great wall of rock, and there was no time to stop. He shouted again, in despair, as he fell—down, down. Then no more sounds came.

But just on the edge of the precipice three bandicoots came out of a heap of dry sticks, laughing.

"That was easily done," said one. "It was only necessary to jump up and down among the sticks and break a few, and the silly fellow made sure it was Miraga."

"Well, he will not make any more foolish mistakes," said his brother. "But is it not surprising to find how simple these humans are!"

"All but our mistress," the first said. "Come—we must make haste to follow her, or else we shall have another long hunt. And nobody knows what mischief she may fall into, if we are not there to look after her!"

CHAPTER III

Miraga ran swiftly into the heart of the forest, glancing back in terror, lest at any moment she should see Yurong. She heard him shout, and the crash of his feet in pursuit as he plunged out of the wurley; and for a moment she gave herself up for lost. He was so swift and so strong: she knew that she could never escape him, once he was on her track.

Another cry reached her presently, not so close. It gave her her first throb of hope that Yurong had taken the wrong turning among the trees. Still she was far too terrified to slacken speed. She fled on, not knowing where she was going.

A great mountain peak loomed before her, and she fled up it. It was hard climbing, but it seemed to her safer than the dark forest, where at any moment Yurong's black face might appear. Here, at least, she might be safe; at least, he would not think of looking for her in this wild and rugged place. Perhaps, if she hid on the mountain for a few days he would grow tired of looking for her, and go away, back to his own people; and then she could try to find her way home. At the very thought of home, poor Miraga sobbed as she ran: it seemed so long since the happy days in the camp by the sea.

The way was strange. She climbed up, among great boulders and jagged crags of rock. Above her the peaks seemed to pierce the sky. Deep ravines were here and there, and she started away from their edges: somewhere, water fell swiftly, racing down some narrow bed among the rocks. So she went on, and the moonlight grew stronger and stronger, until it flooded all the mountain. She fought her way, step by step, up the last great peak. And, suddenly, in the midnight, she came out upon a great and shining tableland: then she knew that in her journeyings she had found the Moon!

Mirran, the Kangaroo, and Warreen, the Wombat, were once men. They did not belong to any tribe, but they lived together, and were quite happy. Nobody wanted them, and they did not want anybody. So that was quite satisfactory.

Warreen was the first. All his tribe had been drowned in a flood, leaving him quite alone. So he found a good camping-place, where there were both shelter and water, and he made himself a camp of bark, which he called, in the language of his tribe, a willum. He was not in a hurry when he was making it, so he did it well, and no rain could possibly come through it. One side of it was a big rock, which made it very strong, so that no wind was likely to blow it away. Overhead a beautiful clump of yellow rock-lilies drooped gracefully. Not that Warreen cared for lilies; and this particular clump annoyed him, for the rock was too steep for him to climb up and eat the lily-roots.

He had been living there for some time, very lazy and contented, when one day Mirran appeared. At first Warreen thought he meant to fight, and that also annoyed him, because he hated fighting. But Mirran soon showed him that he only wanted to be friends; and then Warreen discovered that he was very glad to have some one with whom he could talk. So after the manner of men, they sat down and yarned all day.

Several times during the day Mirran said, "I must be going." But Warreen always answered, "Oh, don't go yet"; and they went on talking harder than ever. Night came, and Mirran said, "It is really time I made a move." Warreen said, "Why not stay the night? I can put you up." They talked it over for a while, and then it was quite too late for Mirran to go. So he stayed all night, and in the morning Warreen said, "Why not spare me a few days, now that you are here?" Mirran willingly agreed to this, for he had nothing to do, and he thought it very nice of Warreen to put the invitation that way.

They became great friends. Mirran was tall and thin and sinewy, while Warreen was very short and dumpy, and exceedingly fat. Also, he was lazy, and he liked having some one to help him get food, at which Mirran was very quick and clever.

Mirran also was the last of his tribe. The others had been killed by warlike blacks, and Mirran would have been killed also, but that he managed to swim across a river and get away into the scrub. He was very active and fleet of foot, and delighted in running, which was an exercise that bored Warreen very badly. Soon they made an arrangement by which Mirran did all the hunting, while Warreen dug for yams and other roots, and prepared the food, just as a woman does. It suited them both very well.

Mirran had one peculiarity that Warreen at first thought exceedingly foolish. He did not like to sleep indoors. It was summer time when he came, and he would not build himself a willum, but slept upon a soft bed of grass under the stars. If a cold night came, or even a rainy one, he rolled himself in his 'possum rug and slept just as happily. Warreen began by thinking he was mad. But as time went on he often slept outside with Mirran, himself, especially on those nights when they were talking very hard and did not want to leave off. Warreen used to grumble at the hardness of the ground, but he was really very much better for staying outside, in the fresh night-air. His little willum was a very stuffy place.

Sometimes he would think about the Winter, and say to Mirran:

"When are you going to build your willum?"

"Oh, there is plenty of time," Mirran would say.

"The cold weather will be here, and then what will you do?"

"Oh, I expect I shall have my camp ready in time. It will not take me long to build it, when the time comes."

"If you are not very careful, you will find yourself caught by the Winter, and you will not like that," said Warreen. But Mirran only laughed and talked about something else. He hated building, and was anxious to put it off as long as possible.

Warreen had a very suspicious mind, and it often made him believe very stupid things. He was the kind of man who was best living alone, because so often he got foolish ideas into his head about other people, and imagined he had cause for offence when there was really none at all. So he began to wonder why Mirran would not build a camp, and the thought came to him that perhaps he did not intend to build at all, but meant to take possession of his own willum. Of course, that was ridiculous, for Mirran was only lazy, and kept saying to himself, "To-morrow I will build"; and when to-morrow came, he would say, "Oh, it is beautiful weather; I need not worry about building for a few days yet." So he went on putting it off, and Warreen went on being suspicious, until sometimes he felt sorry he had ever asked Mirran to live with him. But Mirran sang and joked, and hunted, and had no idea that Warreen was making himself uneasy by such stupid thoughts.

One night, clouds came drifting over the sky, after a hot day, and Warreen said, "I am not going to sleep outside to-night."

"I don't think it will rain," said Mirran. "It is much cooler out here."

"Yes, but one soon forgets that when one is asleep. I hate getting wet," said Warreen.

"Well, just as you like," Mirran answered. "For my part, I am too fond of the stars to leave them." So he spread his 'possum rug in a soft place, and lay down. In a few minutes he was fast asleep, and Warreen went off to bed feeling rather bad-tempered, though he could not have told why.

In the night, heavy rain came, and the air grew rapidly very cold. Mirran woke up, grumbled a little at the weather, rolled himself in his 'possum rug and crept into the most sheltered corner he could find by the rock, not liking to disturb Warreen by going into the willum. It was too cold to sleep, so he soon uncovered the ashes of their camp fire, and put sticks on it; and there he crouched, shivering, and wishing Warreen would wake up and invite him to sleep in the shelter.

But the rain came more and more heavily and a keen wind arose; and a sudden squall put out Mirran's fire. Soon, little channels of water were finding their way in every direction over the hard ground, so that Mirran became very wet and half-frozen. Then he noticed a red glow inside the willum.

"That is good," he said, joyfully, "Warreen is awake, and has made himself a fire. Now he will ask me to go and lie down in his hut."

He crouched close by the rock for a long time, thinking each moment that Warreen would ask him in. But no sound came, and after a while he came to the conclusion that Warreen could not know he was awake. So he got up and went over to the door of the willum and looked in. The little fire was burning redly, and all looked very cosy and inviting to poor, frozen Mirran. Warreen lay near the fire, and looked at him suspiciously.

"Ky! what a night!" said Mirran, his teeth chattering. "You were right about the weather, Warreen, and I was wrong. I have been very sorry for the last hour that my camp is not built. May I come in and sit in that corner?"

There was not much vacant space in Warreen's little willum, but it was quite big enough for two at a pinch. In the corner to which Mirran pointed there was nothing. But Warreen looked at him suspiciously, and grunted under his breath.

"I want that corner for my head," he said, at last. And he turned over and laid his head there.

Mirran looked rather surprised.

"Never mind; this place will do," he said, pointing to another corner.

"I want that place for my feet," Warreen said. And he moved over and laid his feet there.

Still Mirran could not understand that his friend meant to be so churlish.

"Well, this place will suit me famously," he said, pointing to where Warreen's feet had been.

But that did not please Warreen either.

"You can't have that place—I may want it later on," he said, with a snarl. And he turned and lay down between the fire and Mirran, and shut his eyes.

Then Mirran realized that Warreen did not mean him to have any warmth or shelter, and he lost his temper. He rushed outside into the wet darkness, and stumbled over a big stone. That was not a lucky stumble for Warreen, for all that Mirran wanted at the moment was a weapon.

He picked up the stone and ran back into the willum. Warreen lay by the fire and he flung the stone at him as hard as he could. It hit Warreen on the forehead, and immediately his forehead went quite flat.

"That's something for you to remember me by!" said Mirran angrily. "You can keep your dark little hole of a willum and live in it always, just as you can keep your flat forehead. I have done with you!"

He turned and ran out of the hut, for he was afraid that if he stayed he would kill Warreen. Behind him, Warreen staggered to his feet and caught hold of his spear, which leaned against the wall near the doorway. He did not make any reply, but he drove the spear into the darkness after Mirran, and it hit him in the back and hung there. Mirran fell down without a word. The light from the fire shone on him as he lay there in the rain, with the spear behind him.

Warreen laughed a little, holding by his door-post.

"I shall have a flat forehead, shall I?" he said. "Well, you will have more than that. Where that spear sticks, there shall it stick always, and it will be a tail for you. You will never run or jump without it again—and never shall you have a willum." Then he had no more strength left, so he crept back and lay beside his fire, while Mirran lay in the pouring rain.

No one saw Warreen and Mirran again as men. But from that time two new animals came into the Bush, and the Magpie and the Minah, those two inquisitive birds who know everything, soon found out their story and told it to all the black people. So everybody knows that Warreen, the Wombat, and Mirran, the Kangaroo, were once men and lived together. They do not live together now, nor do they like each other. The Wombat is fat and surly and lazy, and he lives in a dark, ill-smelling hole in the ground. His forehead is flat, and he does not go far from his hole; and he is no more fond of working for his living than he was when he lived in a willum as a man. The Kangaroo lives in the free open places, and races through the Bush as swiftly as Mirran used to race long ago. But always behind him he carries Moo-ee-boo, as the blacks call his tail, and it has grown so that he has to use it in running and jumping, and now he could not get on without it. He is just as quick and gentle as ever, but when he is angry he can fight with his forepaws, just as a man fights with his hands.

Other animals of the Bush have holes and hiding-places, but the Kangaroo has none. He does not look for shelter, but sleeps in the open air. It is difficult to see him, for when he is eating young leaves and grass his skin looks just the same colour as the trees, and you are sometimes quite close to him before his bright eyes are seen watching you eagerly. Then he turns and hops away, faster than a horse can gallop, in great bounds that carry him yards at every stride, with Moo-ee-boo, his long tail, thumping the ground behind him. He has learned to use it—to balance on it and make it help him in those immense leaps that no animal in the Bush can equal. So Warreen did not do him so bad a turn as he hoped when he threw his spear at him that rainy night long ago.

The Chief Wonkawala was a powerful man, who ruled over a big tribe. They were a fierce and warlike people, always ready to go out against other tribes; and by fighting they had gained a great quantity of property, and roamed unmolested through a wide tract of country—which meant that all the tribe was well-fed.

Wonkawala had not always been a chief. He had been an ordinary warrior, but he was fiercer and stronger than most men, and he had gradually worked his way up to power and leadership. There were many jealous of him, who would have been glad to see his downfall; but Wonkawala was wary, as well as brave, and once he had gained his position, he kept it, and made himself stronger and stronger. He had several wives, and in his wurleys were fine furs and splendid weapons and abundance of grass mats. Every one feared him, and he had all that the heart of a black chief could desire, except for one thing. He had no son.

Five daughters had Wonkawala, tall and beautiful girls, skilled in all women's work, and full of high courage, as befits the daughters of a chief. Yillin was the eldest, and she was also the bravest and wisest, so that her sisters all looked up to her and obeyed her. Many young warriors had wished to marry her, but she had refused them all. "Time enough," she said to her father. "At present it is enough for me to be the daughter of Wonkawala."

Her father was rather inclined to agree with her. He knew that her position as the eldest daughter of the chief—without brothers—was a fine thing, and that once she married she would live in a wurley much like any other woman's and do much the same hard work, and have much the same hard time. The life of the black women was not a very pleasant one—it was no wonder that they so soon became withered and bent and hideous. Hard work, the care of many babies, little food, and many blows: these were the portion of most women, and might well be that even of the daughter of a chief, when once she left her father's wurley for that of a young warrior. So Wonkawala, who was unlike many blacks in being very fond of his daughters, did not urge that Yillin should get married, and the suitors had to go disconsolately away.

But there came a time when Wonkawala fell ill, and for many weeks he lay in his wurley, shivering under his fur rugs, and becoming weaker and weaker. The medicine-men tried all kinds of treatment for him, but nothing seemed to do him any good. They painted him in strange designs, and cut him with shell knives to make him bleed: and when he complained of pain in the back they turned him on his face and stood on his back. So Wonkawala complained no more; but the back was no better.

After the sorcerers had tried these and many other methods of healing, they declared that some one had bewitched Wonkawala. This was a favourite device of puzzled sorcerers. They had made the tribes believe that if a man's enemy got possession of anything that had belonged to him—even such things as the bones of an animal he had eaten, broken weapons, scraps of furs he had worn, or, in fact, anything he had touched—it could be employed as a charm against him, especially to produce illness. This made the blacks careful to burn up all rubbish before leaving a camping-place; and they were very keen in finding odd scraps of property that had belonged to an unfriendly tribe. Anything of this kind that they found was given to the chief, to be carefully kept as a means of injuring the enemy. A fragment of this description was called a wuulon, and was thought to have great power as a charm for evil. Should one of the tribe wish to be revenged upon an enemy, he borrowed his wuulon from the chief, rubbed it with a mixture of red clay and emu fat, and tied it to the end of a spear-thrower, which he stuck upright in the ground before the camp-fire. Then all the blacks sat round, watching it, but at some distance away, so that their shadows should not fall upon it, and solemnly chanted imprecations until the spear-thrower fell to the ground. They believed that it would fall in the direction of the enemy to whom the wuulon belonged, and immediately they all threw hot ashes in the same direction, with hissing and curses, and prayers that ill-fortune and disease might fall upon the owner.

The sorcerers tried this practice with every wuulon in Wonkawala's possession; but whatever effect might have been produced on the owners of the wuulons, Wonkawala himself was not helped at all. He grew weaker and weaker, and it became plain that he must die.

The knowledge that they were to lose their chief threw all the blacks into mourning and weeping, so that the noise of their cries was heard in the wurley where Wonkawala lay. But besides those who mourned, there were others who plotted, even though they seemed to be crying as loudly as the rest. For, since Wonkawala had no son, some other man must be chosen to succeed him as chief, and there were at least half a dozen who thought they had every right to the position. So they all gathered their followings together, collecting as many supporters as each could muster, and there seemed every chance of a very pretty fight as soon as Wonkawala should breathe his last.

The dying chief was well aware of what was going on. He knew that they must fight it out between themselves, and that the strongest would win; but what he was most concerned about was the safety of his daughters. Their fate would probably be anything but pleasant. Once left without him, they would be no longer the leading girls of the tribe, and much petty spite and jealousy would probably be visited upon them by the other women. Or they might be made tools in the fight for the succession to his position, and mixed up in the feuds and disputes which would ensue: indeed, it might easily happen that they would be killed before the fighting settled down. In any case it seemed to Wonkawala that hardship and danger were ahead of them.

He called them to him one evening, and made them kneel down, so close that they could hear him when he spoke in a whisper.

"Listen," he said. "I am dying. No, do not begin wailing now—there will be time enough for that afterwards. My day is done, and it has been a good day: I have been a strong man and my name will be remembered as a chief. What can a man want more? But you are women, and my heart is uneasy about you."

"Nothing will matter to us, if you die!" said Yillin.

"You may think so now," said the chief, looking at her with affection in his fierce eyes. "But my death may well be the least of the bad things that may happen to you. You will be as slaves where you have been as princesses. Even if I am in the sky with Pund-jel, Maker of Men, I shall be unhappy to see that. Therefore, it seems to me that you must leave the tribe."

"Leave the tribe!" breathed Yillin, who always spoke for her sisters. "But where should we go?"

"I have dreamed that you shall go to the east," said her father. "What is to happen to you I do not know, but you must go. You may fall into the power of another tribe, but I believe they would be kinder to you than your own would be, for there will be much fighting here after I have gone to Pund-jel. I think any other tribe would take you in with the honour that is due to a chief's daughters. In any case, it is better to be slaves among strangers than in the place where you have been rulers."

"I would rather die than be a slave here!" said Yillin proudly.

"Spoken like a son!" said the old chief, nodding approval. "Get weapons and food ready secretly, all that you can carry: and when the men are away burying me, make your escape. They will be so busy in quarrelling that they will not notice soon that you have gone; and then they will be afraid to go after you, lest any should get the upper hand during their absence. Go to the east, and Pund-jel will decide your fate. Now I am weary, and I wish to sleep."

So Yillin and her sisters obeyed, and during the next few days they hid weapons in a secret place outside the camp, and crammed their dilly-bags with food, fire-sticks, charms, and all the things they could carry. Already they could see that there was wisdom in their father's advice. There was much talk that ceased suddenly when they came near, and the women used to whisper together, looking at them, and bursting into rude laughter. Yillin and her sisters held their heads high, but there was fierce anger in their hearts, for but a week back no one would have dared to show them any disrespect.

At last, one evening, Wonkawala died, and the whole tribe mourned for him. For days there was weeping and wailing, and all the time the chief's daughters remained within their wurley, seeing no one but the women who brought them food. As the time went on, the manner of these women became more and more curt, and the food they brought less excellent, until, on the last day of mourning, Yillin and her sisters were given worse meals than they had ever eaten before.

"Our father spoke truth," said Yillin. "It is time we fled."

"Time, indeed," said Peeka, the youngest sister. "Did you see Tar-nar's sneering face as she threw this evil food in to us?"

"I would that Wonkawala, our father, could have come to life again to see it," said Yillin with an angry sob. "He would have withered her with his fury. But our day, like his, is done—in our own tribe. Never mind—we shall find luck elsewhere."

After noon of that day the men of the tribe bore the body of Wonkawala away, to bury it with honour. The women stayed behind, wailing loudly as long as the men were in sight; but as soon as the trees hid them from view they ceased to cry out, and began to laugh and eat and enjoy themselves. They fell silent, presently, as the five daughters of Wonkawala came out of their wurley and walked slowly across the camp. They were muffled in their 'possum-rugs, scarcely showing their faces.

For a moment there was silence, and then one of the women said something to another at which both burst into a cackle of laughter. Then another called to the five sisters, in a familiar and insolent manner.

"Where do you go, girls?"

"We go to mourn for our father in a quiet place," answered Yillin haughtily.

"Oh—then the camp is not good enough for you to mourn in?" cried the woman with a sneer "But do not be away too long—there will be plenty of work to do, for you, now. Remember, you are no longer our mistresses."

"No—it is your turn to serve us, now," cried another. "Bring me back some yams when you come—then perhaps there will not be so many beatings for you!" There was a yell of laughter from all the women, amidst which Yillin and her sisters marched out of the camp, with disdainful glances.

When they drew near their hiding-place they kept careful watch, in case anyone had followed them. As a matter of fact, all the women were by that time busily engaged in ransacking their wurley, and dividing among them the possessions the sisters had not been able to carry away; so that they were quite safe. They collected their weapons and hurried off into the forest.

They had obeyed their father and gone east, and the burial-place was west of the camp, so they met nobody, and their flight was not discovered that night. The men came back to the camp in the evening, hungry and full of eagerness about the fight for the leadership of the tribe, and the women were kept busy in looking after them. The first fight took place that very evening, and though it was not a very big one, it left no time for anyone to wonder what had become of the five sisters. Not until next day did the tribe realize that they had run away; and then, as Wonkawala had foreseen, no one wanted to run after them. Certain young warriors who had thought of marrying them were annoyed, but they could only promise themselves to pursue and capture them when the tribe should again have settled down under new leadership.

The five sisters were very sad when they started on their journey, for the Bush is a wide and lonely place for women, and there seemed nothing ahead of them but difficulty and danger. They wept as they hurried through the forest, nor did they dare to sleep for a long time. Only when they were so weary that they could scarcely drag themselves along, did they fling themselves down in a grassy hollow, where tall ferns made a screen from any prying eyes, and a stream of water gave them refreshment. They slept soundly, and dreamed gentle dreams; and when they awoke in the morning it seemed that a great weight had been lifted from their hearts.

"I feel so happy, sisters," said Yillin, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Our father came to me in my sleep, and told me to be of good courage and to smile instead of weeping."

"He came to me, also," said Peeka, "and told me there was good luck ahead."

"After all," said another of the girls, "what have we to fret about? It is a fine thing to go out and see the world. I am certain that we are going to enjoy ourselves."

"It will be interesting, at any rate," said Yillin. "But we must hurry onward, for we are not yet safe from pursuit—though I do not think it will come."

They made as much haste as possible for the next few days, until it seemed certain that no one was tracking them down; and with each dawn they felt happier and more free from care. They were lucky in finding game, so that they were well-fed; and on the fifth day they came upon trees loaded with mulga apples, which gave them a great feast. They roasted many of the apples and carried them with them in their food-bowls. Sometimes they came to little creeks, fringed with maidenhair fern, where they bathed; sometimes they passed over great, rolling plains, where they could see for miles, and where kangaroos were feeding in little mobs, dotted here and there on the kangaroo-grass they loved. Flocks of white cockatoos, sulphur-crested, flew screaming overhead, and sometimes they saw the beautiful pink and grey galahs, wheeling aloft, the sunlight gleaming on their grey backs and rose-pink crests. Then they went across a little range of thickly-wooded hills, where the trees were covered with flocks of many-coloured parrots, and the purple-crowned lorikeets flew, screeching—sometimes alighting, like a flock of great butterflies, on a gum-tree, to hang head downwards among the leaves, licking the sweet eucalyptus honey from the flowers with their brush-like tongues.

Sometimes, when they had lain very quietly through a hot noon-tide hour, they saw the lyre bird, the shyest bird of all the Bush, dancing on the great mound—twenty or thirty feet high—which it builds for its dome-shaped nest; mocking, as it danced, the cries of half the birds in the country, and waving its beautiful lyre-shaped tail. The magpie woke them in the dawn with its rich gurgling notes; the beautiful blue-wren hopped near them, proud of his exquisite plumage of black and bright blue, chirping his happy little song. They passed swamps, where cranes and herons fished, stalking in the shallows, or flew lazily away with dangling legs; and sometimes they heard the booming of the bittern, which made them very much afraid. At evening they would hear a harsh, clanging cry, and, looking up, they would see a long line of black swans, flying into the sunset. There were other birds too, more than any white boy or girl will ever know about: for these were the old days of Australia, long before the white men had come to settle the country and destroy the Bush with their axes. But there were no rabbits, and no thistles, for Australia was free from them until the white men came.

Gradually the daughters of Wonkawala lost all fear. They were perfectly happy, and the Bush no longer seemed lonely to them; they had enough to eat, they were warm at night, and so strong and active, and so skilled in the use of weapons, had their woodland life made them, that they did not seem to mind whether they met enemies or not. They often danced as they went on their way, and made all the echoes of the forest ring with their songs.

At last, one day, they found their way barred by a wide river which flowed from north to south. They could, of course, all swim; but it was not easy to see how to get their furs across. They were talking about it, wondering whether they could make a canoe or a raft, when they heard a friendly hail, and, looking across, they saw five girls standing on the opposite bank.

"Who are you?" shouted the strangers.

"We are the daughters of Wonkawala," they cried. "Who are you?"

"We are girls of the Wapiya tribe, out looking for adventures."

"Why, so are we, and we have found many." They shouted questions and answers backwards and forwards, until they began to feel acquainted. "What do you eat?" "What furs have you?" "What songs do you sing?" That led to singing, and they sang all their favourite songs to each other, beating two boomerangs together as an accompaniment. When they had finished they felt a great desire to travel together.

"It is really a great pity that the river flows between us," cried the daughters of Wonkawala. "How can we join you?"

The Wapiya girls laughed.

"That is quite easy," they answered. "This is a magic river, and when once your feet have touched it you will be Magic too. Dance straight across!"

"You are making fun of us," cried Yillin.

"No, indeed, we are not. We cannot cross to you, for on your side there is no Magic. But if you will trust us, and dance across, you will find that you will not sink."

This was hard to believe, and the sisters looked at each other doubtfully. Then Yillin took off her rug and handed it to Peeka.

"It will be easy enough to try, and at the worst I can only get a wetting," she said. "Follow me if I do not sink."

She went down to the water and danced out upon its surface. It did not yield beneath her; the surface seemed to swing and heave as though it were elastic, but it supported her and she danced across with long, sliding steps. Behind her came her sisters; and so delightful was it to dance on the swinging river-top that they burst into singing, and so came, with music and laughter, to the other side. The Wapiya girls met them with open arms.

"Ky! You are brave enough to join us!" they cried. "Now we can all go in quest of adventure together, and who knows what wonderful things may befall us!"

So they told each other all their histories, and they held a feast; and after they had all eaten, they danced off to the east together, for they were all so happy that their feet refused to walk sedately. Presently they came to an open space where were many tiny hillocks.

"This is Paridi-Kadi, the place of ants," said the Wapiya girls. "Here we have often come before, to gather ants' eggs."

"Dearly do we love ants' eggs," said little Peeka, licking her lips.

"And these are very good eggs," said the eldest of the Wapiya girls, whose name was Nullor. "But the ants defend them well, and those who take them must make up their minds to be bitten."

"Ants' eggs are worth a few bites."

"Certainly they are. Now let us see if you are really as brave as you say."

They attacked the hillocks with their digging-sticks, and unearthed great stores of plump eggs, which they eagerly gathered. But they also unearthed numbers of huge ants of a glossy dark green colour, and these defended their eggs bravely, springing at the girls and biting them whenever they could.

"Ky!" said Yillin, shaking one off her arm. "It is as well that these eggs are so very good, for the bites are certainly very bad. We have no ants like these in our country."

"Have you had enough?" asked Nullor, laughing.

"Enough bites, yes; but not enough eggs," said Yillin, laughing as well. "The eggs are worth the pain." She thrust her digging-stick into a hillock so energetically that she scattered earth and eggs and ants in all directions, and one ant landed on Nullor's nose and bit it severely—whereat Nullor uttered a startled yell of pain, and the daughters of Wonkawala laughed very much.

"Who is brave now?" cried little Peeka.

Nullor rubbed her nose with a lump of wet earth, which, as she was black, did not have such a curious effect as it would have had on you.

"I was taken by surprise," she said, somewhat shamefacedly. "And indeed, my nose is not used to such treatment, for I do not usually poke it into ants' nests!"

They ate all the eggs, and rubbed their bites with chewed leaves, which soon took away the stings; and then they danced away together. After a time, Yillin saw an eagle flying low, carrying something in its talons. She flung a boomerang at it, and so well did she aim that she broke its neck, and the great bird came fluttering down. It fell into a pool of water and Yillin jumped in to rescue its prey, for she could see that it was alive. It turned out to be a half-grown dingo, a fine young dog, which was too bewildered, between flying and drowning, to make any objection to being captured. Yillin secured it with a string which she plaited of her own hair and as much of Peeka's as Peeka was willing to part with, and fed it with bits of wallaby; and the dog soon became friendly and licked her hand.

"He is a lovely dog," she said, "and I will always keep him. I will call him Dulderana."

"I think he will be rather a nuisance," said Nullor. "Anyway, he will soon leave you and go back into the Bush."

"I do not think he will," Yillin said.

"Well, you cannot teach him to dance or sing," said Nullor, laughing, "so he will have to run behind us."

"Of course he will; and he will be very useful in hunting," said Yillin. "We should not have lost that 'possum yesterday if we had had a dog."

Dulderana very soon made himself at home, and became great friends with all the girls. It amused him very much when they danced, and though he could not dance himself, he used to caper wildly round them, uttering short, sharp barks of delight. But their singing he did not like at all, and when they began, he used to sit down with his nose pointing skywards, and howl most dismally, until the girls could not sing for laughing. Then they would pelt bits of stick at him until he was sorry. By degrees he learned to endure the singing in silence, but he never pretended to enjoy it.

One day, as they went along, they saw in the far distance a silvery gleam.

"What is that?" asked Yillin.

"It looks like the duntyi, or silver bush," said the Wapiya girls, doubtfully.

"That does not grow in our country," said Yillin. "Let us go and look at it."

But when they drew near, they saw that it was not a bush at all. Instead, it was a man, a very old man. He had no hair on his head, but his great silver beard hung straggling to his knees, and when the breeze blew it about it was so large that it was no wonder they had mistaken it for a bush. No word did he speak, but he sat and looked at them in silence, and when they greeted him respectfully he only nodded. Something about him made them feel afraid. They clustered together, looking at him. At last he spoke.

"I have come too soon," he said. "You are not ready for me yet. Go on."

At that Dulderana howled very dismally indeed, and rushed away with his tail between his legs. The girls quite understood how he felt, and they also ran away, never stopping until they were far from the strange old man.

"Now, who was that?" Yillin said.

Nullor looked uneasy.

"I do not know," she said. "This is a strange country, and there is much Magic in it. We will hurry on, or he may perhaps come after us."

So they hastened on into the forest, forgetting, for a while, to dance; but then their fear left them, and again their songs rang through the Bush. They passed a clump of black wattle, the trunks of which were covered with gum, in great shining masses, so that they had a splendid feast; for the gum was both food and drink, and what they could not eat they mixed with water and drank, enjoying its sweet flavour. With their bags filled with gum they went on, and one evening they camped among a grove of banksia trees, near a pool of quiet water. It was not very good water to drink, but the Wapiya girls showed the five sisters how to suck it up through banksia cones, which strained out any impurities and gave it a very pleasant taste. They were tired, and lay down early.

In the night a great wind sprang up, and with it came a curious booming noise. It woke the daughters of Wonkawala, and they sat up in alarm.

"Ky! that must be a huge bittern," said Peeka.

"It is not like a bittern," Yillin said. "I have never heard any sound like it. Perhaps it is the Bunyip, of whom our mother used to tell us when we were little—a terrible beast who lives in swamps, and whose voice fills every one with terror."

The Wapiya girls woke up, and they also listened. Then they laughed among themselves, but they did not let the sisters see that they were laughing. They seemed to think little of the noise.

"It is only the wind howling," they said. "Lie down and sleep, you five inlanders!"

"What do you mean by that?" demanded Yillin. But the Wapiya girls only giggled again, and lay down, declaring that no Bunyip was going to spoil their sleep. And as they were so cheerful, the sisters came to the conclusion that they might as well do the same.

When they awoke it was day, and the booming was still going on, and the wind felt fresh and wet. The Wapiya girls were already up, and they greeted them with laughter.

"We have a surprise for you," said they. "Shut your eyes, and let us lead you."

The sisters did so, and felt themselves led forward. Presently the earth became soft and yielding under their feet, and they cried out in alarm, but the others laughed again, and said, "Never mind, you are quite safe."

In a moment more they said, "Now, open your eyes!" The sisters did so, and lo! they stood before a great sheet of water with high, tumbling waves. Blue and sparkling was the water, and the big waves came rolling in, gathering themselves up slowly with their tops a mass of foam, which slowly rose and curled over until it plunged down, crashing in a smother of breaking bubbles. The daughters of Wonkawala had never seen anything like it before, and they gasped in amazement.

"Ky! what a river!" they cried. "Where is the other side?"

The Wapiya girls shouted with laughter.

"The other side!" they gasped, when they could speak. "Why, there is no other side. This is the Sea, and it is the end of all things. Have you never heard of it?"

"Is that the Sea?" The five sisters stared. "We have heard stories of it from the old men and women, but we never imagined that it was like this. No one could imagine it without seeing it. Have you known it before?"

"Oh, yes. We have often camped here with our tribe. Come nearer."

They took the sisters down to the edge of the water, and presently a great wave rolled in, broke in a thunderous roar, and came dashing up the sand. The sisters stared at it in amazed admiration at first, and then, as it came nearer, Fear fell upon them, and they screamed and turned to fly. They ran as fast as they could in the yielding sand, but the wave came faster and the water caught them, at first round their ankles and then swiftly mounting to their knees. Then it went back, and the sisters thought that they were slipping back with it, and screamed louder than ever. The Wapiya girls, themselves weak with laughter, caught hold of them.

"The Sea!" screamed the sisters. "The Sea is carrying us away!"

The others led them up on higher sand and laughed at them until they began to laugh at themselves.

"Never before have I seen water that runs backwards and forwards, as though a great giant were shaking it in a bowl," said Yillin. "We are sorry to have been afraid, but it is all very peculiar and unexpected. Are you sure it is not Magic?"

"I do not think anyone can be sure of that about the Sea," said Nullor. "It is strange water, and indeed I often think that it is very great Magic indeed. But if it is, it is a good Magic, and we are not afraid of it."

"And this queer yellow earth, that slips away under the feet—is that Magic too?"

"Oh—the sand. Perhaps it is—who knows. But it will not hurt you. Come on, let us bathe in the Sea, for that is one of the most beautiful things in the world."

The daughters of Wonkawala hung back at first, for they were very doubtful of trusting themselves to the magic water. But the others laughed and persuaded them, and they ventured in, paddling at first, until they became used to the rushing breakers. But soon they gained confidence, and before long not even the Wapiya were bolder than they, and they would dive into a breaker and be carried in on its curling top, laughing and playing like so many mermaids: so that the Wapiya girls soon lost any feeling of superiority, and only regained it once, when Peeka, feeling thirsty, scooped up some of a passing wave in her cupped hands and took a deep draught. For the next two minutes Peeka was coughing and spluttering and spitting, while the other girls yelled with laughter.

"That is certainly very bad Magic," said Peeka angrily, when she could speak. "What has made the water turn bad?"

That set the Wapiya girls off into fresh peals of mirth, and it was some time before they could explain that the water was always salt. Peeka was annoyed, but presently she laughed too.

"Oh, well, if that is the worst of its Magic, there is not much to grumble at," she said. "Come on, girls, let us dive into this next one!" And the next moment Peeka's merry black face was half hidden in the flying spray as the breaker bore her ashore.

They stayed by the Sea for some days, for the inland girls were too fascinated to leave it, and when they were not bathing in it, they were wandering along the shore, wildly excited over finding shells and seaweed and all the other treasures of the sands. Then one day a great black cloud came up, obscuring all the sky, and instead of being sparkling blue and silver, the water turned to a dull grey and looked dead and oily. The other girls were afraid of it, and would not go into the cold, dark breakers: but Yillin, who loved bathing more than any of them, would not be persuaded, and plunged in for a swim. She did not stay long, for the water felt more and more uncomfortable each moment; so she let a big, sullen breaker carry her in, and, wading out, ran up the beach to the other girls.

They started back when they saw her, looking at her with amazement and fear.

"What have you done to yourself?" cried Nullor.

"I? Nothing. What are you looking at?"

Nullor pointed a shaking forefinger at her body, and looking down, Yillin uttered a bewildered cry. No longer was she smooth-skinned and black. Her body and legs were thickly covered with shining scales, so that she gleamed like silver.

No one in the Bush ever had a good word to say for the Crows. From the very earliest times they were a noisy, mischievous race, always poking their strong beaks into what did not concern them, and never so happy as when they were annoying other people. Whatever a mother Crow taught her chickens, civility and good manners were not included in the lessons; they were accomplishments for which none of the family had the slightest use.

It did not at all trouble the Wokala, as the Crows were called, that they were unpopular. Indeed, they rather gloried in the amount of ill-feeling they were able to excite among the Bush folk. They were powerful birds, well able to hold their own in any quarrel with birds of their own size, and so quick and daring that they would even steal from animals, or attack weak ones, secure in the advantage given them by their strong wings. They made so many enemies, however, that they took to going about in flocks, so that no one dared molest them—not even Wildoo, the Eagle, or Kellelek, the Cockatoo.

Especially did Wildoo hate the Wokala. He was always proud, as the King of the Birds has every right to be, and among all birds that fly his word was law. He liked to keep good order, and if any bird displeased him, a few quiet words, possibly accompanied by a discreet peck, or a blow from one of his great wings, was more than enough to bring the offender to his senses. One day he had occasion to punish one of the Wokala, who had stolen the meal laboriously provided by the wife of Wook-ook, the Mopoke, for her husband, who was ill. The Wokala, battered and furious, flew away and told his story to the other Crows; who, equally furious, flew in a mob to the high crag where Wildoo had his nest. There was no one there, for it was too late in the season to find chickens: so the Wokala amused themselves by scattering the nest to pieces, and when Wildoo and his wife came home from hunting they hid among the bushes and screamed all sorts of insulting things at them. Wildoo took no notice, openly. It would have been beneath his dignity to go hunting smaller birds in thick bushes—which the Wokala very well knew. He merely folded his wings and, with his wife, perched on the edge of the rocky shelf where his nest had been, and stared out across the tossing green sea of gum-trees that clothed the rolling hills below, his yellow eyes full of silent anger. Gradually the Wokala grew tired of screaming, and, becoming hungry, flew away.

After that the Wokala became more insolent than ever. Even Wildoo was afraid of them, they said; and they kept together in a mob, and lost no chance of being rude to him. More and more they attacked and insulted the other birds, until no one felt safe if there were any chance of the evil Wokala coming near. Again and again complaints came to Wildoo of their wicked doings, and Wildoo heard them in silence, nodding his head, with his brain busy behind his yellow eyes. But he said nothing: until at length the other birds began to ask themselves was it really true that Wildoo was afraid? Wildoo was not at all afraid of a flock of squawking Wokala. But he was very much afraid of being made to look ridiculous. He had no intention of making a false step, and he did not quite know what to do. There was no one for him to talk to, for the Eagle is a lonely bird—not like Chirnip, the Magpie-Lark, or Tautani, the Cormorant, with dozens and dozens of friends. He is a king, and therefore he is lonely: and, being naturally silent, he does not talk much, even to his wife. All by himself he had to think out the problem of what to do about the Wokala; and, meanwhile, the Wokala perched above his nest and insulted him, and dropped bits of stick down upon his rocky shelf, and screamed rude things at his wife, until she said crossly to Wildoo, "I cannot think why you do not make an end of those abominable little white birds. They are a disgrace to any decent Kingdom, and you have not the spirit of a Bandicoot!" This annoyed and hurt Wildoo, but he said nothing—only looked at her until she caught a gleam of fire in the depths of his yellow eyes.

Perhaps you did not know that in the very early times all the Wokala were white? They were the whitest of all the birds of the Bush, without a single grey or coloured feather in all their bodies: so that there was a saying in the Bush, "As white as a Wokala." They were very proud of it, too, and thought it quite a disgrace if one of their chickens showed a sign of being even creamy in colour, once he was nearly fledged. They kept themselves very clean, going often to bathe; and when they flew about in a flock their dazzling whiteness almost hurt the eye, while, if they perched in a dead gum-tree, they looked like big snowflakes against the grey branches. Even Kellelek, the Cockatoo, was dingy compared to the gleaming whiteness of the Wokala. Somehow, it seemed to make their bad behaviour worse, since no one would expect a beautiful bird like polished marble to have the manners of a jungle pig.

Summer ended early that year, with a great thunder-storm, followed by a month of wild wind and driving rain: and all the birds were rather uncomfortable because the moulting season was scarcely over. Most of all, the Wokala were annoyed. They liked their white feathers so much, and were so proud of their smart appearance, that they always delayed moulting as long as ever they could; and now the bad weather caught them in a worse state than the other birds. When the rains ended, early frosts came, and found the Wokala without any of their new feather cloaks ready. They used to huddle together among the thickest trees, shivering and untidy.

In that part of the country there is a great black ironstone hill, treeless and forbidding. Few birds go there, for there is nowhere to perch, and but little food except the tiny rock-lizards that sun themselves in the hot mornings. Wildoo knew it well, for he often flew over it, and occasionally he was accustomed to stand on a shelf at the mouth of a cave near the top—a black hole in the hillside where no one but an Eagle would willingly perch alone. He took refuge in the cave one morning, during a fierce hail-storm; and it was there that an idea came to him.

That night as he came flying homewards, he brought in his great talons a bundle of dry sticks, and as he flapped his way over the black ironstone hill, he dropped down on the ledge and made a heap of his sticks on the floor of the cave. The next morning he did the same: and so it went on for many days, until he had a big pile of smooth sticks, something like a great nest. His wife came with him one evening, and was very much amused.

"Why have you taken to playing with sticks?" she asked, laughing. "I never saw such a funny heap. Is it a game?" But Wildoo only looked at her sourly, and said, "Be quiet, woman!" after the manner of husbands: and since she was more sensible than most wives, she was quiet.

It was after his heap of sticks was ready that Wildoo went to look for the Wokala. They had been far too uncomfortable lately to continue to be rude to him, and, in fact, were keeping out of the way of every one; so that he had some difficulty in finding them, and might have given it up but for Corridella, the Eagle-hawk, who remembered having seen them near a sheltered gully between two hills.

"They are cold," said Corridella, laughing, "oh, so cold, and so sorry for themselves. There is no impudence left in them."

"Cold indeed must be the night that chills the impudence of the Wokala," said Wildoo.

"It is going to be a very cold night," said Corridella. "Already there is a sharp nip of frost in the air. I think that some of the Wokala will be dead before morning, for none of them have their new feather cloaks nearly ready." He chuckled. "Well, no one in the Bush will mourn for them. Perhaps they will realize now that it does not pay to make enemies of every one."

"The Wokala will never learn a lesson," answered Wildoo. "They are always satisfied with themselves: and even though some may die, the others will forget all about it, once they have their shining white cloaks and can flock into the tree-tops again. But possibly they may not be so lucky—who can tell?" He also chuckled, looking as wise as an owl. But when Corridella asked him what he meant, he pretended to go to sleep: and Corridella, who knew better than to pester an Eagle with too many questions, said good evening and sailed homeward across the tree-tops.

Left to himself, Wildoo waited until no bird was in sight, and then flapped heavily away from his rocky shelf, and dived downward to the gully. It did not take him long to find the Wokala. They did not gleam with the whiteness of snow, for they were moulting and very shabby, and a few were dressed mainly in pin-feathers; but their voices were just as harsh as ever, and guided Wildoo to where they were huddling among some she-oak trees. Already a cold wind was whistling down between the hills, sighing and moaning in the she-oak branches. There is no tree in all Australia so mournful as the she-oak on a cold night, when each long needle seems to sing a separate little song of woe. Already the miserable Wokala were sorry that they had chosen to roost there.

Suddenly, great wings darkened the evening sky above them, and, looking up, they saw Wildoo. He perched on a limb of a dead gum-tree far overhead, and looked down at them, laughing. There seemed, to the shivering Wokala, something very terrible in the sound of his laughter.

"Kwah!" they whispered. "Wildoo has found us. Now he will be revenged." They knew they could not fly swiftly enough to escape him, and they began to creep downwards, hoping to hide among the bracken fern that clothed the gully. But Wildoo called to them, and, to their astonishment, his voice sounded friendly.

"Oh, Wokala!" he cried. "Are you very cold?"

"Ay, we are cold," said the Wokala, as well as they could, for their beaks were chattering with fear and shivering.

"No wonder, seeing how little you have on," said Wildoo. "A pity you did not get your new white feather cloaks ready earlier, instead of spending your time in annoying honest folk. Well, perhaps you will have more sense next year."

"Doubtless we shall, if we live," said the oldest Wokala. "But it seems likely that not many of us will live, for we are nearly frozen already."

"How distressing for you!" said Wildoo—"especially as it will be far colder before morning than it is now. These gullies are the chilliest places in the Bush on a frosty night."

The beaks of the Wokala chattered anew.

"We came for shelter," said the old Wokala miserably. "But you say truth, Wildoo: I think the Frost-Spirit has his home down here. Is it any warmer where you are?"

"Very little," said Wildoo—"and the wind is singing through these branches. But I know of a sheltered place, for all that."

"Kwah!" said the Wokala, all together. "A sheltered place! Oh, Wildoo, you are great and—and—and beautiful. Will you not tell us where it is?"

"Great and beautiful, am I?" said Wildoo, with a chuckle. "That is not the sort of thing you have been calling me all these months. However, it is lucky for you that I am also good-natured; I would not willingly see any of my people die of cold, not even the Wokala, who deserve little of anyone."

"Then you will tell us where is the sheltered place?" chattered the Wokala.

"Fly across to the Black Mountain," said Wildoo. "There is an ironstone wurley near the top—I will guide you to it, if you like. It is big enough for you all, and there is a fine heap of sticks on which to perch. The wind will not blow inside it, and the morning sun will shine right into it."

"It sounds too wonderful to be true," said the Wokala. "Is it dry, this ironstone wurley?"

"Dry as old bones," answered Wildoo. "Oh, you would be in luck to get there—you would forget all your troubles."

"One would think that impossible," shivered the old Wokala—he was very sorry for himself. "But if you will really guide us there, then be quick, Wildoo, or none of us will be able to fly at all."

"Very well," Wildoo answered. "I will go slowly, as I suppose you are all stiff. Follow me, and come down when you see me perch."

He spread his great wings and looked down at them for a moment with a little smile; and if they had not been so eager and so cold they might have hesitated at the expression in his yellow eyes. But, as usual, the Wokala thought only of themselves, and as they had learned to believe that Wildoo was afraid of them, they never suspected that he might be leading them into a trap. They cried "Kwah! Kwah!" and rose into the air after him as soon as the flapping of the mighty wings told them that he had left the gum-tree. Even to fly slowly was difficult, so stiff with cold were they: but they all persevered, except one young hen—a pretty young thing, whose weary wings would not do their duty. She made a brave attempt to rise, but before the flight had cleared the big dead gum-tree she had to drop back—thankful to find a secure perch on a jutting limb.

"Ky!" she whimpered. "I can never fly all the way to the Black Mountain. I must die here."

She crept along the limb until she came to the trunk, and there luck awaited her. In the fork was an old 'possum-hole which had not been used for many seasons. It was dry and warm—sheltered from the bitter wind, and soft underfoot with rotting leaves, pleasant to the touch. The young Wokala hopped in thankfully, and it seemed the last touch to her wonderful good fortune that she immediately met a fine fat grub. She promptly ate it for her supper, tucked her head under her wing, nestled into the farthest corner, and went to sleep, remarking drowsily, "This is better than all Wildoo's ironstone wurleys!"

The other Wokala did not notice that the young hen had dropped back—or if they did they did not worry about her. Weary as they were, it took all their strength to keep Wildoo in sight, even though he kept his word and flew slowly. They were thankful when at length he sank lower and came to rest on a big boulder by the mouth of the cave near the mountain-top. The Wokala followed him in a straggling line, and perched on the shelf outside the cave.

"There you are," Wildoo said, nodding towards the yawning hole in the hillside. "That is your ironstone wurley, and I will promise you that you will find it dry and free from draughts."

"There is nothing living there?" asked the old Wokala, looking a little doubtfully at the cave.

"Nothing at all. All you will find there is a heap of dry sticks; you can perch there and keep each other warm. Stay there, if you like it well enough, until your new feather cloaks are ready—you are really scarcely fit for decent society now." Wildoo cast a half-contemptuous glance at the shivering, half-fledged birds, as they clustered on the rocky shelf. Then he flew off again into the gathering darkness.

"Whatever is Wildoo about?" asked Kellelek, the Cockatoo, of his hens. "He seems to be leading all the Wokala round the sky. A funny nurse he looked, and with a funny lot of chickens!"

"No wonder he waited for dusk before he would be seen with them," said one of his wives contemptuously. "I flew by their tree to-day, and really, they were a positive disgrace. And they always think themselves so smart!"

"Oh, they'll be smart enough again," said Kellelek, laughing. "Wait until they have their new feathers on, and you will be just as jealous of them as ever you were. There is no doubt that the Wokala are smart—that is, for people who prefer plain white. I like a good sulphur crest myself—but then, it's all a matter of opinion."

"Well, don't let the Wokala know that you admire them, or they will be worse than ever," said his wives, ruffling their feathers angrily.

Meanwhile, the Wokala had hesitated just for a moment before entering the cave. Then a fresh blast of cold wind swept across the face of the mountain, and they waited no longer, but fluttered in before it, in a hurrying, jostling flock. It was just as Wildoo had told them: warm and dry, and with a big heap of dry sticks in the middle—just the thing for them to perch on. They hopped up eagerly, huddling together for warmth, scrambling and fighting for the best places. Soon they were all comfortably settled, and at last warmth began to steal back into their shivering bodies.

"A good thing we made Wildoo afraid of us," said one sleepily. "Otherwise we should never have known of this splendid wurley." The others uttered drowsy murmurs of "Kwah!" as they drifted into slumber.

But far away on his mountain shelf Wildoo sat and waited, his yellow eyes wide and wakeful. The dusk deepened into night, and far off, from his perch on a tall stringy bark tree, old Wook-ook, the Mopoke, sent out his long cry, "Mo—poke! Mo—poke!" Presently came a dim radiance in the east and Wildoo stirred a little.

"Peera comes," he muttered.

Peera, the Moon, came up slowly, until all the Bush was flooded with her dim light, falling into shadow now and then, when dark clouds drifted across her face. Wildoo waited until she was above the tree-tops, with her beams falling upon the ironstone mountain. Then he took a fire-stick in his talons and flew swiftly away, never pausing until he alighted on the shelf before the cave.

He laid the fire-stick down and went softly to the dark opening, listening. There came only the sound of the breathing of the Wokala, with now and then a muffled caw as one dreamed, perhaps, of cold and hunger. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, Wildoo could see them—a huddled white mass upon the heap of sticks. That was all he wanted, and he went back swiftly for his fire-stick, and with it went into the cave. Very softly he slipped it into the dry heart of the heap of sticks below the sleeping Wokala. He waited until little smoke-wreaths began to curl up, and a faint glow came from within the heap.

"Now you will be warm enough, my friends!" he muttered. He hurried out of the cave, and flew slowly to the nearest tree, on the hill opposite the Black Mountain. There he perched and waited. Very soon all the dark mouth of the cave was filled with glowing radiance, and clouds of smoke came billowing out and rolled down the hill. Then came loud and terrified cawing, and Wildoo thought he could see dark forms fluttering out through the smoke. His yellow eyes gleamed at the sight. And then clouds came suddenly across the face of the Moon, and a fierce wind blew, with driving rain that beat into the mouth of the cave. It blotted out the glow, and the wind carried away the cries. When all was quiet Wildoo flapped off to his nest.

He was back next morning on the boulder outside the cave, and with him all the birds of the Bush, whom he had collected as he came, saying to them, "Come and see what happens to those who insult Wildoo." The black mouth of the ironstone cave looked grim and forbidding, and, peering in, the birds could see the charred ends of the dry sticks, scattered on the floor round a heap of ashes. Then, from the inner recesses of the cave came a strange procession, and at the sight the Kooka burra burst into a peal of laughter. For it was the Wokala.

They came slowly—but where were their white feathers, of which they had been so proud? All were gone, singed off close to their bodies; and their bodies were blackened with smoke. Queer, naked birds they looked, creeping out into the sunshine, and there was no pride left in them. They looked up and saw Wildoo and the laughing birds of all the Bush; and with a loud miserable cawing they fled back into the cave.

No one saw the Wokala again for a time. But after a long while they came out again, this time with all their feathers fully grown. No longer, however, were they white—the whitest of all birds. Their new feathers were a glossy black!

They looked at each other for a moment with a kind of horror. Then they rose into the air with a swift beating of their jet-black wings, and, calling "Kwah! Kwah!" they fled across the sky. And as they flew another cawing was heard, and a white bird rose and flew to meet them—the Wokala hen who had been left behind, and who had taken refuge in the 'possum-hole. She was now the only white Wokala left in all the world. They met in mid-air, and at sight of the strange black birds with the familiar voices the white Wokala uttered a scream and fled away, never to be seen again.

Since then, always the Crows have been black. They found their old impudence again after a while, and became what they had been when they were white—always the nuisances of the Bush, vagabonds and robbers and bullies. But still the terror of the ironstone wurley is upon them, and they never venture into caves, but live in the big trees, where they can see far and wide, and where no creeping enemy can come upon them in the darkness. And Wildoo, the King of the Birds, never finds them near his nest, nor need he ever speak to them. One glance from him is enough for the Wokala: they would fly to the deepest recesses of the Bush rather than face the gleam of his yellow eyes.

CHAPTER I

Kur-bo-roo was a little black boy baby. His father and mother had no other children, and so they were very proud of him, and he always had enough to eat. It is often very different when there are many hungry pickaninnies to be fed—especially in dry seasons, when roots and yams and berries are hard to find, and a black mother's task of filling her dilly-bag becomes more difficult every day. Then it may happen that the children are quite often hungry, and their ribs show plainly through their black skins: and they learn to pick up all kinds of odd food that white children would consider horrible—insects, grubs, and moths, and queer fungi, which may sometimes give them bad pains—although it is not an easy thing to give a black child indigestion.

But Kur-bo-roo had not known any hard times. He was born a cheerful, round baby, quite light in colour at first; and as he darkened he became rounder and jollier. His hair curled in tight little rings all over his head, and his nose was beautifully flat—so flat that his mother did not need to press it down to make him good-looking, as most of the black mothers do to their babies. He was very strong, too, with a straight little back and well-muscled limbs; and when his teeth came they could crunch up bones quite easily, or even the hard nardoo berries. His mother thought he was the most beautiful pickaninny that was ever born, which is an idea all mothers have about their babies. But Kur-bo-roo's mother knew that she was right.

He had so many good things to eat that he grew fatter and fatter. His father brought home game—wallaby, wombat, iguana, lace-lizards, porcupines, bandicoots, opossums; and though it was polite to give away a good deal to his wife's father, there was always plenty for little Kur-bo-roo. Then delicious bits of snake came his way, and long white tree-grubs, as well as all the native fruits and berries that the black women find; and he had plenty of creek water to drink. So long as you give a wild blackfellow good water he will always manage to forage for food.

Kur-bo-roo did not have to forage. It interested his father and mother tremendously to do all that they could for him, and watch him grow. As soon as he could toddle about, his father made him tiny throwing-sticks and a boomerang, and tried to teach him to throw them; and his mother, squatting in the shade of the wurley, would laugh to see the baby thing struggling with the weapons of a man. And, while she laughed, she was prouder than ever. She used to rub his limbs to make them supple and strong. He did not wear any clothes at all, so that she was never worried about keeping his wardrobe in order. Instead, she was able to give all her time to making him into what she thought to be the best possible kind of boy. And, however that may have been, it is quite certain that there never was a happier pickaninny.

It was when Kur-bo-roo was nearly six years old that the evil spirit of Trouble came to him.

Sickness fell upon the tribe. No one knew how it came, and the medicine-men could not drive it away. First of all, the people had terrible headaches, and the Meki-gar, or doctor, used to treat them in the usual manner—he would dig out a round sod of earth and, making the patient lie down with his head in the hole, would put the sod on his head, and stand on it, or sit on it, to squeeze out the pain. If this were not successful, he would tie a cord tightly round the patient's head, and cut him with a sharp shell or flint, beating his head with a little stick to make the blood flow freely. These excellent measures had in the past cured many severe headaches. But they could not cure the sickness now.

So the Meki-gar had the patient carried out of the camp. The bearers carried him slowly, singing a mournful chant; and behind them came all the sick man's friends, sweeping the ground with boughs, to sweep away the bad power that had caused the disease. This bad power was, the Meki-gar said, the work of a terrible being called Bori. But, whether it was Bori's fault, or whether the tribe had simply brought sickness on themselves by allowing the camp to become very dirty, the Meki-gar could not drive away the sickness. It grew worse and worse, and people died every day.

Kur-bo-roo was only a little lad, but he was unhappy and frightened, although he did not understand at all. The air was always full of the sound of the groaning and crying of those people who were ill, and of lamenting and mourning for the dead. Everybody was terribly afraid. The blacks believed that their bad spirits were angry with them, and that nothing could do them any good; and so, many died from sheer fright, thinking that once they were taken ill they were doomed, and that it was no good to make a fight against the mysterious enemy. That was stupid, but they did not know any better.

Then there came a heavy rain, and after it was over, and the sun had come out to smile upon a fresh, clean world, the sickness began to get better and pass away. But just at the last, it came to the wurley where Kur-bo-roo lived with his father and mother.

Kur-bo-roo could not understand why his parents could not get up and go to find food. They lay in the wurley together, shivering under all the 'possum rugs and talking quickly in queer, high voices that he could not make out at all. They called often for water, and he brought it to them in his little tarnuk, or drinking-vessel, going backwards and forwards to the creek, and up and down its banks, until his little legs were very tired. Long after he was tired he kept on going for water. Then there came a time when they could not lift the tarnuk, and he tried to hold it to their lips, so that they could drink; but he was not very successful, and much of the water was spilt. You see, he was only a very little, afraid boy.

He woke up one morning, cold and hungry. There was no more food in the wurley, and no voices: only a great silence. He crept under the 'possum rug to his father and mother, but they were quite still, and when he called to them, they did not answer. He rubbed their cold faces with a shaking little hand, but no warmth came to them. Then he broke into loud, frightened crying, like any other lonely little boy.

Presently some of the blacks came to the wurley and pointed at the quiet bodies under the 'possum rug, and jabbered very hard, beckoning to others to come. Kur-bo-roo heard them say "tumble-down" a great many times, and he knew that it meant "dead"; but he did not know that his father and mother would never speak to him any more. Only when an old woman picked him up and carried him away he understood that a terrible thing had happened to him, and he cried more bitterly than ever, calling to his mother. She had always run to him when he called. But now she did not come.

CHAPTER II

After that, hard times came upon little Kur-bo-roo. There were none of his own family left, for the sickness had taken them all. His father and mother had been the last to die, and that made the blacks think that very probably Bori, the Evil Spirit, had been especially angry with Kur-bo-roo's family, because so many of them had died and the last terrible blow of the disease had fallen on their wurley. Indeed, for awhile they argued as to whether it would not be better to kill Kur-bo-roo too, so that so troublesome a family should be quite stamped out, with no further chance of annoying Bori and bringing trouble upon the tribe. They did not spare him out of any idea of pity; but because so many men and boys had died that the tribe had become seriously weakened, and it seemed foolish to kill a strong and healthy fellow like Kur-bo-roo. It was very important for a tribe to keep up its fighting strength, for there was always a chance that another band of blacks might come upon them and want to fight: in which case the weaker tribe might be swallowed up. So boy babies were thought a good deal of, and for that reason the blacks did not make an end of little Kur-bo-roo.

But he had a very bad time, for all that. No one wanted him. He was nobody's boy; and that hurts just the same whether a boy be black or white. Never was there so lonely a little fellow. The other children were half afraid of him, because the fear of Bori's anger yet hung about him; they would not let him join in their games, and took a savage delight in hunting him away from their wurleys. Another black family had taken possession of his father's wurley, and no home was left to him. He used to wander about miserably, often sleeping in the open air, curled up in the shadow of a bush, or in a hollow tree-stump. If it were cold or wet, he would creep noiselessly into a hut when he thought every one would be asleep—and quite often he was kicked out again.

He was always hungry now. His father and mother had taken such care of him, and had loved so much to keep him fed, that he had never learned how to find food for himself. He would wander about in the Bush, looking for such things as his mother had brought him, but he knew so little that often he ate quite the wrong things, which made him very sick. He learned a good deal about food in that way, but the learning was not pleasant work.

It was a bad year for food. Dry weather had come, and game was scarce; it was hard for the fighting-men to bring home enough for their own children, without having to provide for a hungry boy of six who belonged to nobody. Kur-bo-roo used to hang about the cooking-places in the hope of having scraps of food thrown to him, but not many came his way. When so many were hungry the food was quickly eaten up. Sometimes a woman, pitying the shrinking little lad, would hastily toss him a bone or a fragment of meat; and though you would not have cared for the way it was cooked, Kur-bo-roo thought that these morsels were the most delicious he had ever tasted.

You see, a wild blackfellow has not much to think about except food. He has no schools, no daily papers, no market days, or picture shows, or telephones. The wild Bush is his, and all he asks or expects of it is that it shall supply him with food. He knows that it means strength to him, and that strength means happiness, as a rule, when all that he has depends upon his own ability to keep it for himself. He does not reason things that way, for the blackfellow is simple, but he just eats as much as he can whenever he can get it, and that seems to agree with him excellently. That was the principle on which Kur-bo-roo had been brought up, and it had made him the round, black, shiny baby that he had been until his parents died.

He was not nearly so round and shiny now. His little body was thin and hard, and he did not look so strong as before. It was not altogether lack of food that had weakened him—the want of happiness had a great deal to do with it.

He had found out that the tribe did not like him. Not only was he nobody's boy, but he was the object of a kind of distrust that he could feel without at all understanding it; and he had learnt to shrink and cringe from blows and bitter words. Once he had found a lace-lizard asleep on a rock, and, grasping his tiny waddy, had stolen up to it very carefully, all the instinct of the hunter blazing in his dark, sad eyes. The lizard, when it woke, was quick, but Kur-bo-roo was quicker—the stick came down with all the force of his arm, and he carried off his prey in triumph, meaning to ask a woman who had sometimes been kind to him if she would cook it for him. But just outside the camp three big boys had come upon him as he was carrying his prey, and that had been the last that Kur-bo-roo had seen of his lizard. He had fought for it like a little tiger—quite hopelessly, of course, but to fight had been a kind of dismal satisfaction to him, even though he was badly beaten in addition to losing his dinner; and that was specially unfortunate, for blacks think lizard a very great delicacy indeed. The boys ran off with it, jeering at the sobbing little figure on the ground; and they called him names that, even in his angry soreness, made him think. They said something to do with an evil spirit—he pondered over it, creeping into a clump of bushes. Why should they call him that?

Blacks always want a reason for any happening. Sometimes they are satisfied with very foolish reasons; but they must have something to explain occurrences, especially if they are unpleasant ones. The sickness that had fallen on their tribe they put down to Bori, as the medicine-man told them; but when the sickness had gone, it seemed only reasonable to believe that Bori was satisfied and would leave them alone for awhile. So they could not understand why misfortune should still pursue them. Another tribe had stolen part of their country, and they had been too weakened by the sickness to fight for it; and now had come the drought, making food harder than ever to obtain, and causing some of the babies to fall sick and die. They turned to the magic-men or sorcerers for explanation, and these clever people performed a great many extraordinary tricks to make things better. Then, as they were really hard up for some object on which to throw the blame of their failure, it occurred to them to turn suspicion towards little Kur-bo-roo.

Kur-bo-roo went on with his unhappy little life, quite ignorant of the storms gathering round his woolly head. No one was ever kind to him, and he could scarcely distinguish one day from another; although he gathered a vague idea that in some way they were linking his name with the Evil Spirit, he did not understand what that meant. He kept on hunting round for food and water, and dodging blows and angry faces. If he had guessed that the magic-men were busily persuading the people that his family and he were the cause of the terrible year through which they had passed, he might have been more uneasy; but, in any case, he was only a very little boy, and perhaps he would not have understood. He had enough troubles to think of without looking out for more.

CHAPTER III

Then the worst part of the drought happened, for the creek began to run dry.

Day after day it ran a little more slowly, and the deep holes at the bends shrank and dwindled away. The fish disappeared completely, having swum down-stream to where deeper waters awaited them; and so another source of food was lost to the tribe. There only remained the black mud-eels, and soon it was hard to find any of these, try as they might. That was bad, but it was nothing in comparison to the loss of the water supply. Without the creek, the tribe could not exist, for the only other drinking-places in their country were swamps and morasses, and these, too, were dried up and useless. So the magic-men and head-men became very anxious, and many were the black glances cast upon the unconscious Kur-bo-roo as he slunk round the camp or hunted for food in the scrub. Then the head-men issued a command that no one should drink from the creek itself, lest the little water remaining should be stirred up and made muddy, or lest anyone should drink too much. Instead of going to the creek to drink, they were permitted to fill their tarnuks, or drinking-vessels, each morning; and then no one was allowed to approach the creek again that day. So in the mornings a long procession of women went down to the bank, where a head-man watched them fill the tarnuks, remaining until the last had hurried away, very much afraid of his fierce eyes.

But the new law fell very heavily on Kur-bo-roo, for he had now no tarnuk. The little one made for him by his father long ago had disappeared when he lost everything, and since then he had always been accustomed to drink at the creek. Now, however, he could not do so, and no one would give him a tarnuk, or let him drink from theirs. He would have stolen it very readily, for he was now not at all a well-brought-up little boy, but the tarnuks were hung far beyond his reach.

Of course, the magic-men knew how the new law would affect the little fellow. They knew that now it would be impossible for Kur-bo-roo to drink, and after a little he would "tumble-down" and be dead; and then, perhaps, the Evil Spirit would be satisfied, and go away from the tribe. They watched him carefully, and were glad that he became weak and wretched. They had uttered such savage penalties against drinking from the creek that it never occurred to them that he would dare to disobey. But sometimes in the darkness Kur-bo-roo used to creep down for a drink, being, indeed, as desperate as a boy can be, and quite sure that unless he went he must die; and he had become so stealthy in his movements that he was never caught. It did not satisfy his thirst, of course, for it was the hottest part of the summer, and all the blacks were accustomed to drinking a great deal: still, it was something. At least, it kept him alive.

Then, one morning, came news of a number of kangaroo feeding two miles away by the creek, and all the camp fell into a state of tremendous excitement at the very idea of such a chance of food. All the men and big boys dashed off at once, and presently the women made up their minds that they would follow them, as it was not at all unlikely that if the men had good luck in their hunt they might immediately sit down and eat a great portion of the game they had killed—in which case there was only a poor look-out for those left in camp. So they gathered up their dilly-bags and sticks, slung the babies on their backs, and ran off into the Bush after the men, leaving the camp deserted.

Now, it chanced that Kur-bo-roo knew nothing of all this. He had not spent the night in camp, because, on the evening before, he had been savagely beaten by two big boys, who had caught him alone in the scrub, and when they had finished with him he was too sick and sore to crawl back to the wurleys. He had crept under a bush, and slept there uneasily, for the pain of his bruises kept waking him up. The sun was quite high in the sky before he made up his mind to go back to the camp, in the faint hope that some one would give him food. So he limped slowly through the Bush, wincing when the harsh boughs rubbed against his sore limbs.

He stopped at the edge of the camp and rubbed his fists into his eyes, blinking in surprise. No one was in sight; instead of the hum and bustle of the camp, the men sitting about carving their spears and throwing-sticks, the women chattering round the wurleys, the babies rolling on the ground and playing with the dogs, there was only desolation and silence. He approached one hut after another, and poked in a timid head, but he saw no one, and the stillness seemed almost terrible to him. Then, in a corner of one wurley he saw a rush-basket, and from it came a smell that would have been disgusting to anyone but a black, but was pure delight to Kur-bo-roo. His fear vanished as he seized upon the food and ate it ravenously.

He came out presently, his thin little body not nearly so hollow as before, and looked about him. The food had made him feel better, but he was terribly thirsty. And then he saw, with a little glad shout, that all about the camp were drinking-vessels, brimming with water—put down wherever their owners had happened to be when they had rushed away to the hunt. Kur-bo-roo did not know anything about that, of course; he only knew that here was water enough to make him forget that he had ever been thirsty. He ran eagerly to the nearest tarnuk and drank and drank until he could drink no more.

And with that drink, so the blacks say, a great change came upon little Kur-bo-roo.

Kur-bo-roo put down the tarnuk and stood upright, throwing his head back in sheer bodily happiness at once more having had enough to eat and drink. All his bruises and soreness had suddenly gone; he was no longer tired and lonely and unhappy, but strong and well and glad. How wonderfully strong he felt! A new feeling ran through all his body.

"I am stronger than anybody ever was before!" he said aloud. And he believed that it was true.

He glanced round the deserted camp. It was quiet now, but he felt sure that soon the blacks would come hurrying back. Perhaps they would be there in a moment: Kur-bo-roo listened, half dreading to hear the quick pad-pad of bare feet over the hard, baked ground. No sound came. But he knew that they would return: and then, what would await him?

His new strength seemed to burn him. He stretched his arms out, wondering at their hard muscles, although he felt that the drink had been Magic, and so he need not wonder at anything at all. Some good Spirit, perhaps sorry for lonely little boys, had evidently come to help him. Fear suddenly left him altogether, and with its going came a mighty desire for revenge. He did not know what he was going to do, but the new power that was in him urged him on.

A little tree grew in front of him. He began to gather up all the drinking-vessels, and, one by one, to hang them upon the boughs. There were very many, and it took a long time, but at last the task was completed, and not a tarnuk was left in the camp. He looked in the wurleys, and found many empty vessels, and these also he hung up in the tree. Then he took the biggest tarnuk of all, and a little tarnuk, and went down to the creek: and with the little tarnuk he filled the big one, dipping up all the water from the creek, until there was none left. There was much water, yet still the big tarnuk held it all, and only the mud of the creek-bed remained where the stream had been rippling past. Even as he looked, that grew dry and hard. Then Kur-bo-roo turned and carried his burden up the bank to his tree, and from the big tarnuk he filled all the empty ones. They held a great deal, and yet the big tarnuk remained quite full. For now there was Magic in everything that Kur-bo-roo touched.

He climbed up into the little tree and seated himself comfortably in a fork, where he could see everything, and yet lean back comfortably. A quiver ran through the tree, as if something far underground had shaken it; and suddenly it began to grow. It grew and grew, spreading wide arms to the sky, until it was as large as very many big trees all put together: and its trunk was tall and straight and very smooth. All the time, Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork and smiled.

When the tree had finished growing, he heard a sound of voices far below him, and, looking down, he saw the tribe hurrying back through the scrub to their camp. Their hunt had been unsuccessful, for all the kangaroo had got away into the country of another tribe, where they dared not follow: so they were returning, hungry and thirsty, and in a very bad temper, for they had not found any water in the places where they had been. They came angrily back to the camp, and from his seat in the fork of the great tree Kur-bo-roo looked down at them and smiled.

The blacks were far too thirsty to look up at any tree. They hurried to the wurleys. Then the first said, "Where is my tarnuk?" and another said, "Wah! my tarnuk has gone!" and a third, "Who has taken all our tarnuks?" They became very angry, and beat their wives because they could find no drinking-vessels and no water: then, becoming desperate because of their thirst, they hurried to the creek. And lo! the creek was dry! They came back from the creek, jabbering and afraid, believing that the Evil Spirits had done this wonderful thing. Presently one saw the big tree, and cried out in astonishment.

"Ky! What tree is that?" he exclaimed.

They gathered round, staring in amazement at the huge tree: and so they saw all their tarnuks hanging in its branches, and little Kur-bo-roo sitting smiling in the fork.

"Wah! is that you?" they called. "Have you any water?"

"Yes, here am I, and I have plenty of water," said Kur-bo-roo. "But I will not give you one drop, because you would give me none, although I died of thirst."

Some threatened him, and some begged of him, and the women and children wailed round the base of the tree. But Kur-bo-roo smiled down at them, and took no heed of all their anger and their crying. Then a couple of young men took their tomahawks of stone and began to climb the tree, although they were afraid, because it was so big. Still, thirst drove them, and so they came up the tree, cutting notches for their fingers and toes in the smooth trunk, and coming wonderfully quickly. But Kur-bo-roo laughed, and let fall a little water on them from a tarnuk; and as soon as the water touched them, they fell to the ground and were killed.

Again and again other men tried to climb the tree, becoming desperate with their own thirst and the crying of the women and children; but always they met the same fate. Always Kur-bo-roo smiled, and splashed a few drops of water upon them: only a drop on each of them, but as the drops touched them their hold loosened, the grip of their toes relaxed, and they fell from the great height, to meet their death on the ground below. So it went on until nearly all the men of the tribe were gone: and Kur-bo-roo sat in the fork of the tree and smiled.

And it still went on, all through the moonlit night. But in the dawn two men came back from hunting: Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin, the sons of Pund-jel, Maker of Men. They were very cunning, as well as being very brave, and after they had taken counsel together, they began to climb the tree. But they did not climb as the other men had done, straight up the long line of the smooth trunk. Instead, they climbed round and round, as the clematis creeps when it throws its tendrils about a branch.

Kur-bo-rop laughed, just as he had laughed at the others, and waited until they had ascended to a great height. Then he took water, and let it fall—but the men were no longer in the same place, but on the other side, climbing round and round, and he missed them. Again and again he ran to get more, and poured it down; they were very quick, circling about the trunk, and always managed to escape the falling drops. They came to the place where the trunk forked, and swung themselves into the high boughs.

Then little Kur-bo-roo began to cry in a terrified voice. But they seized him, not heeding, and beat him until all his bones were broken, and then threw him down. The other blacks uttered a great shout of triumph, and ran to kill him.

But the Magic that had helped him came to the aid of little Kur-bo-roo once more, and so he did not die. Suddenly, just as the angry blacks were upon him, with uplifted waddies and threatening faces, he changed under their gaze; and where there had been a little black boy there lay for a moment a Native Bear, his grey fur bristling, and fear filling his soft eyes. Then, very swiftly, he gathered himself up and ran up a tree, until he was out of sight among the branches.

Just then the blacks were too thirsty to pursue him. Overhead, Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin were cutting at the branches of the great tree that held the tarnuks; and all the water came out and flowed back to the creek, and again the creek became wide and clear, running swiftly in its bed so that there was drink for all. Then Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin came down to the ground, and the tribe hailed them as heroes. But when they looked for little Kur-bo-roo, the Native Bear, he had fled into another tree, and had disappeared.

From that time, the Native Bears became food for the black people. But it is law that they must not break their bones when they kill them, nor must they take off their skin before they cook them. So they take them carefully, hitting them on the head; and they cook them by roasting them whole in an oven of stones, sunk in the ground. If the law were broken, Kur-bo-roo would again become powerful, the magic-men say; and the first thing he would do would be to dry up all the creeks.

Now, Kur-bo-roo lives near the creeks and water holes, so that if the people broke the law he might at once carry away the water. He is not very wise, because he was only quite a little boy before he became a Native Bear, and so had not much time to gain wisdom: but he is soft, and fat, and gentle, unless you interfere with him when he wants to climb a tree, and then he can scratch very hard with his sharp claws. All he can do is to climb, and he does not see very well in the daytime: therefore, he thinks that whatever he meets is a tree, and at once he tries to climb it. If the blacks throw things at him when he is sitting in the fork of a tree, he blinks down at them, and sometimes you might think he smiles. But if they climb his tree and come near to knock him down, he cries always, very terribly—just as he cried long ago, when he was Magic and Ta-jerr and Tarrn-nin climbed his great tree and threw him to the people far below.

CHAPTER I

Once there was a time when the blacks had no fire. They had not learned the way to make it by rubbing two sticks together; or if they had once known the way, they had forgotten it. And they were very miserable, for it was often cold and wintry, and they had no fire to warm them, nor any way of cooking food.

Fire had been theirs once. But there came two women upon the Earth; strange women, speaking in unknown tongues, with great eyes in which there was no fear. They did not love the blacks. They lived in their camps for a time, and built for themselves a wurley, coming and going as they pleased; but always there was hatred in their wild eyes, and the blacks feared them exceedingly. Because they feared them, although they hated them, they gave them food, and the women cooked it for themselves, for at that time the fire blossomed at the door of every hut.

But one day, the blacks awoke to find the women gone. They had gone in the night, silently, and with them they took all the fire that the blacks had. There was not even a coal left to start the hearth-blaze for the shivering people.

The fighting-men made haste to arm themselves, and started in pursuit of the women. They travelled through swamps and morasses, across boggy lands and creeks fringed with reeds and sedges; all the time seeing nothing of the women, but knowing that they were on the right track, by the faint smell of fire that still hung in the air. "They have gone this way, carrying Fire!" they said. "Soon we shall overtake them." And they pressed on, going faster and faster as the smell of burning wood became stronger and stronger.

At last they came out upon a little open space, and, looking across it, they saw a new wurley made of bushes interlaced with reeds. In front of it smoke curled up lazily, and they caught the gleam of red coals, and yellow flame. The two women sat by the fire, motionless. The fighting-men broke into a run, shouting: "Now we will make an end of these women!" they cried fiercely to each other, as they ran, gripping their spears and throwing-sticks.

The women sat by the fire taking no heed. So little did they seem to notice the running warriors that it seemed that they did not see them; or, if they did see them, they cared no more than for a line of black swans flying westward into the sunset. One stirred the fire gently, and laid across the red embers a dried stick of she-oak. The other weaved a mat of rushes in a curious device of green and white; and as she twisted them in and out, she smiled. Even when the long shout of the fighting-men sent its echoes rolling round the sky, they did not look up. The glow of the flames shone reflected deep in their eyes.

So the fighting-men came on, grim and relentless, burning with the anger of all their long chase and the hot desire for revenge. They tightened their grip on their waddies, since there was nothing to be gained by risking a throwing-stick or a spear when the enemy to be slain was only two women, weak and unarmed. For such defenceless creatures, a blow with a waddy would be sufficient. But, half a spear's cast from the wurley, something they could not see brought them to a sudden, gasping halt. It was as though a wall were there, soft and invisible, but yet a wall. They could not touch it to climb over it, neither could they force their way through. They struck at it, and it was as if their sticks struck the empty air. There was nothing to see but the wurley, and the fire, and the quiet women, and the air was clear and bright. But no step farther could they advance.

They circled about the camp, trying at every step to get nearer to the wurley. It was all to no purpose: always the wall met them, though they could not see it. So they came back to the point whence they had started, breathless, angry, and a little afraid. They were brave men, and used to battle, but it is easier to fight a visible enemy than one that lurks, unseen, in the air. It was Magic, and they knew it. Still, their anger burned furiously within them, and one lifted a spear tipped with poisoned bone, and flung it at the women. To see him lift his hand was enough for the band. A storm of spears went hurtling through the air.

For a few yards the spears flew straight and true. But then they stopped suddenly in mid-flight, as though an unseen wall had met them. For a moment they seemed to hang in the air, then they fell in a jangling heap among the tussocks. And beyond them, while the terrified warriors shrank together, gesticulating and trembling, the women laid more sticks upon the fire, and smiled.

The fighting-men were cunning, and they did not give in easily. Not only were they smarting with the fury of defeat, but the tale was not one they wished to carry back to the tribe, lest they should become a laughing-stock even to the women and young boys. So they drew off, thinking under cover of night to renew the attack in the hope that when the women slept their Magic would also sleep. So, when darkness had fallen, they crept up again, on noiseless feet. But the invisible wall was there, and they could find no gap in its circle; while, all the time, the fire burned redly before the wurley, and the women sat by it, feeding it, and weaving their mats of white and green.

At length the warriors became weak for want of food, and weary of the useless struggle; and so they gave up the fight and slowly made their way back, across swamp-land and morass, to the tribe that waited for them, shivering and fireless, in the shadow of the hills.

Great and bitter were the lamentations at the news of their defeat. They had been eagerly watched for; and when they came slowly back to the camp, trailing their spears, a long cry of angry disappointment rent the air. It was difficult to believe their story. Who could imagine a wall, strong enough to stop warriors, yet that could not be seen? So they found themselves coldly looked upon, and their wives said unpleasant things to them in their wurleys that night. Quite a number of wives had sore heads next morning—since it was easier to deal with a talkative wife by means of a waddy than by argument. But the wives had the last word, for all that, and the small boys of the tribe used to call jeering words at the disgraced warriors, from the safe concealment of a clump of dogwood, or fern. Meanwhile, there was no cooked food. The tribe was very far from being happy.

Then a band of young men, who were not picked warriors, but were anxious to distinguish themselves, made up their minds that they would go forth to find the Fire-Women and slay them, and bring back Fire to the tribe. They were very young men, and so they were confident that they could succeed where the warriors had failed; and for at least a week before they started they went about the camp telling every one how they meant to do it. When they were not doing this, or singing songs about the great deeds they meant to perform—and very queer songs they were—they were polishing their weapons and making new ones, and talking together, at a great rate, of their secret plans. When they were ready, at last, they painted themselves with as much pipe-clay as they were allowed to use, and gathered together to start.

"When we have killed the Fire-Women," they said to the tribe, "some of us will turn homewards and wait here and there along the way. Then the others will run with the fire-stick, and as they grow tired those that have gone ahead will take it and run very swiftly back to you. In three days the tribe will be cooking food with the fire which we shall bring. Then we shall get married and have wurleys and fires of our own."

All the blacks listened gravely, except the fighting-men who had not brought back anything at all. These men laughed a little, but no one took any notice of their laughter, because they had failed, and it is the way of the world not to think well of failures. The girls thought the band of young warriors wonderfully noble, and smiled upon them a great deal as they marched out of the camp. Of course, the boys were much too proud to smile back again—but then, the girls did not expect them to, and were quite content to do all the smiling. So the little band marched off with a great flourish, and the Bush swallowed them up.

"May they come back soon!" said one girl, as she and her companions dug for yams next day.

"Ay!" said the others. "We are weary of eating things which are not cooked."

"I am weary of being cold," said one. "There is but one 'possum rug in our wurley, and my father takes it always."

"There will be great feasting and joy when they bring Fire back," said another. "Perhaps some of us will be married, too." And they laughed and made fun of each other, after the fashion of girls of any colour.

But the three days had not past when the young men returned: and when they came, they sneaked back quietly into the camp and tried to look as if they had not gone at all. They had washed the pipe-clay from their bodies, and were all quite anxious to work very hard and make themselves exceedingly useful to the older men; nor were they at all anxious to talk. They gave severe blows to the young boys who clustered round them, clamouring for news, and told them to go and play. But when they were summoned before the leaders, they hung their heads and told the same story as the warriors. They had seen the Fire-Women, they said, and they still sat before their wurley and fed the fire; but the young men could not come near them, nor could any of their weapons reach them. And when they were wearied with much throwing, and their arms had grown stiff and sore, a great fear came suddenly upon them, and they turned and fled homeward through the scrub, never stopping until they came upon the huts they knew. Now they were very much ashamed, and the girls mocked at them, but the warriors shook their heads understandingly.

"To fight is no good," they said. "Unless the magic-men can tell us how to beat down the magic wall and conquer the Fire-Women, the tribe will go for ever without Fire. We are wonderfully brave, but we cannot fight witchcraft. Let the magic-men undertake the task, for indeed it is a thing beyond the power of simple men. But is it not for such matters that we keep the magic-men?"

Then all the tribe said, "Yes, that is what we have been thinking all along." And they looked expectantly at the magic-men, demanding that they should at once accomplish the business, without any further trouble. Every one became quite pleased and hopeful, except the magic-men themselves—and they were in a very bad temper, because they did not like the task.

Still they held their heads high, and made little of the matter, because to do anything else would have been imprudent: and they looked as wise as possible—a thing they had trained themselves to do, whether they knew anything about a matter or not. All kinds of wise men can do this, and it is a very handy habit, because it makes people think them even wiser than they are. They went away by themselves, with dreadful threats of what might happen if the people came near them—not that there was any need for them to take such precautions, for the blacks were much too terrified by them to venture near when they were working any kind of Magic.

A great deal of what the blacks called Magic would seem very stupid to you if you watched it now; but they all believed in it firmly, and even those who knew that they deceived others still thought that Magic was a real thing, and that it could be practised upon them. The magic-men shut themselves up for a time; and then they told the men that they had made themselves into crows, and had flown over to watch what the Fire-Women were doing. As all the tribe believed that, they could turn themselves into any animal they chose, and be invisible, nobody thought of doubting this. The magic-men then began to weave spells. They chopped the branches from a young she-oak tree, and cleared away grass and sticks in a circle round it. Then they sharpened the end of the trunk, and drew on the ground the figure of a woman, with the lopped tree growing out of her chest. Afterwards they rubbed themselves all over with charcoal and grease, and danced and sang songs round the tree for some days, expecting the Fire-Women to feel their Magic, so that they would have to rise from their camp and walk, as if in a sleep, to the place of the dance. But the women did not come, and so the magic-men told themselves that they were not yet strong enough. Meanwhile, the tribe clustered some distance off, very frightened and respectful, and also very cold.